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TANTALUS 



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TANTALUS 


BY 

DOROTHY EASTON 

»* 


<£ My people are gone into captivity for lack 
of knowledge — Isaiah. 



NEW YORK 

ALFRED A. KNOPF. MCMXXIII. 



GIFT 

PUBLISHER 



Printed in Great Britain by The Whitefriars Press , L/<2., 
London and Tonbridge 


DEC 26 71 


ISV' 


CHAPTER I 


A: 


Ting ! went the alarum clock ; the Vicar of Hartake 
woke and sighed, it was Sunday. He could hear the 
north-east wind still blowing hard, water to wash in 
would be like ice, the church at that hour like a vault; 
it was seven o’clock in the middle of January, and the 
sound of bugles in the camp marked it as another war- 
year. He must get out of bed in a minute. 

“ Curious,” he said to himself, “ how a word you have 
read will stick to you without rhyme or reason . . . 
will haunt you. ‘ Faineant ,’ ” he repeated to himself. 
He had come across it in an article the night before, and 
had paused to weigh its meaning : “ idle ” didn’t quite 
express it. “ French is so subtle,” he had said to his 
wife; but long after the article was finished and 
forgotten that unlucky word stayed in his head. 

It had coloured his dreams, teazing yet evasive; he 
had felt, all night, like a stupid boy trying to define it; 
and here with the ting of the alarum it was uppermost 
in his mind again. 

" Why,” he asked himself, “ should a stray word 
come and take hold of the whole of my brain ? ” It’s 
a sign of overwork, they say, when some chance word 
like that gets on one’s nerves. 

“ Faineant ” : he got out of bed. 

His wife always went to the early celebration ; she 
broke the skin of ice in the china jug and soon showed 
cheeks rosy from washing, like Devonshire apples. 


2 


TANTALUS 


The vicar often said of her that her faults were the 
faults of her qualities. Having been bom without 
vanity, she only looked in the glass for propriety’s sake, 
to see that all was neatness ; the brown hair pulled 
back from her brow must show no “ ends.” The vicar 
brushed his hair more thoughtfully ; and while he 
breathed on his purple knuckles for a moment he 
thought, “ Idle ... I’m not idle ” ; that was the 
annoying part, that such a word should cling to such 
a man as he. 

The church bell sounded. Jennifer and his wife 
stepped on to the snow, and a great gust of wind slapped 
their faces, a draught like a cold rope ran round their 
necks, and the vicar, who had had a poor supper and 
would have a poor breakfast—it being war-time, and 
his stipend small—felt spiritually cowed, and corporeally 
frozen. 

The vestry seemed a perfect haven after the beating 
of the gale, but once his coat was off, and the thin white 
surplice donned, he shivered again: “ Are there 

many ? ” he asked the verger. 

“ About twenty, sir.” 

The bell stopped ; the vicar walked up the aisle. 

The church smelt faintly of old graves, but it was 
comforting in its shelter; the early sunlight touched 
the cross. “ I am a good medicine,” it seemed to say, 
but it was cold work handling the books and the 
chalice. 

The vicar looked at his church, and saw his best, 
most loyal parishioners with purple fingers and half- 
frozen lips. “ War has drawn us together! ” he 
thought. It was a favourite thought, one of those 


TANTALUS 


3 


thoughts you like to nurse because you feel there’s 
virtue in it ; and simultaneously his brain registered 
the word “ faineant.” He looked at the east window, 
and repeated the Lord’s Prayer with an added 
solemnity ; he was doing God’s work, it was enough. 

Many of the ladies registered their spiritual feelings 
by frequent use of their handkerchiefs, and one young 
girl fainted. 

The vicar read the next prayer aloud in his normal 
voice as one who draws a veil over intimate secrets, and 
the sunshine disappeared; the cold increased, every 
one shivered, in a hurry to get home. But because the 
vicar was hungry and eager to get to his own fire he 
lingered, giving added weight to old dry words, for he 
paid his conscience off in this way, with self-sacrifice. 

At last he was back in the vestry, and the faithful 
few were stamping their feet on the snow outside ; his 
curate hurried in : “You ought to let me take the 
seven-thirty on a day like this, sir ! ” was his greeting. 

“ No, no,” smiled the vicar. “ Each man to his 
post; it’s the third Sunday in the month ! My day.” 

“ Well, you ought to have something.” 

" Time enough when we get old, Wilson ! ” For 
though the vicar’s grizzled hair said he was getting old, 
his dark-brown eyes said he wasn’t; he had a horror of 
decay, it was his especial nightmare, he made extra 
services to avoid it, and tramped out to preach at alien 
parishes, and visited the poor indefatigably. 

Now the bell ceased ringing again, the vicar com¬ 
posed his face, and led his curate up the aisle between a 
larger congregation, and, kneeling, repeated with equal 
earnestness the same good words again. The eight 


4 


TANTALUS 


o’clock celebration was more solid in effect, people 
looked as if they had come to do their duty, and they 
did it conscientiously, looking and feeling very virtuous. 

Mrs. Jennifer had hurried on home to see that the 
fire was burning and the kettle boiling, and to scatter 
crumbs to the robins ; at a quarter to nine she saw her 
husband’s tall, lean figure and his pleasant face coming 
quickly between the trees ; he was laughing at the 
birds, and while he came snow began to fall. 

Vicarage chimneys invariably devour all the heat, 
while the rooms they stand in smell of mildew; Jennifer’s 
vicarage faced west, a strong, steady old house designed 
to last, not to live in ; it was seldom warm. Now the 
vicar tried to coax the fire by smiling at it ; he stooped 
until his back ached, then stood with lifted coat, and 
still the precious flame went up the chimney ! 

“ Your tea will spoil, dear,” came his wife’s gentle 
voice ; she always sounded anxious over little things 
in life, but over big issues like “ Eternity ” she had no 
anxiety whatever ; “ now I’ve poured it out, do drink 
it,” she entreated. 

“ I tell you I can’t enjoy it till I’m warm ! ” smiled 
the vicar. 

After all, “ breakfast ” was a pleasure that didn’t last 
long, it was that good moment when a man is blessed 
by having got up early, by the feeling of a full day 
before him, by belief in himself as a useful being ; a 
different meal from supper, when he has done it all and 
still feels . . . what ? Tired, dissatisfied, a prey to 
a word. 

But this short, golden “ breakfast ” feeling passed, a 
maid came in and spoilt it all by clearing everything 


TANTALUS 5 

away; each moment spent there after that was laziness. 
The vicar went off to his study. 

The “ study ” was a cold room near the front door, 
its green paper bulged where the rain leaked in, the 
fireplace was rusty (giving up his fire was one of the 
vicar’s bits of patriotism), the carpet near the door 
stood up between two broken nails where the draught 
whistled in. Ivy leaves rattled round the window, 
four or five inches of thick naked fibre stood out on the 
porch where some creeper would bloom by and by ; 
old books set in rows had an unused look, the engravings 
on the walls stayed for ever the same, a Georgian 
gentleman’s black profile on a white paper, an etching 
of the Pyramids, a photo of the vicar and some former 
parish choir, a dull brown copy of a sacred picture 
showing a dying Christ on the Cross. 

The big writing table looked most alive; it was 
littered with letters and religious pamphlets, a worn 
Bible, and a copy of George Herbert, together with a 
volume of modern essays on religious thought. The 
vicar’s rug lay over his chair, but he didn’t stay to tuck 
it round him, he leant on his table and looked through 
notes, put a pencil in his pocket, marked a verse for 
quotation, read over a summary he had made last 
night of the Reverend Atborough’s Thoughts on Prayer, 
and then stayed still a moment, thinking of nothing, to 
watch a thrush on the snowy lawn. 

The church bell rang again, he hurried out; it was 
9.45, his special service for the troops. 

They had their own chaplains, but liked to come to 
the sheltering walls of the old Town Church : they 
“ liked the music,” one man said, they “ liked a change,” 


6 


TANTALUS 


they “ liked the vicar,” in fact they came and “ liked ” 
coming. It had given Jennifer new youth just as he 
was nearing old age. 

The church was full this Sunday morning, and he and 
his curate took the service very earnestly, the men 
sang with a will, the organist gave them a “ military 
march,” and the sun looked out again, slanting in 
through the side windows. It was good to hear the 
wind outside, for the stove was lit, and iron pipes 
warmed the church, that was full of frosty breath and 
the sound of coughing. The men shouted “ Alleluia ” 
as if it was a war-cry, they sang as though to ease their 
hearts of all that ever troubled them, and they knelt in 
long brown rows with reddened faces that looked 
earnest, and here and there a pair of eyes that asked 
an answer to some sad enigma of the sun-illumined 
cross ; and the vicar felt: “I must get home to them ! 

it’s the chance of my life ! I must-” he stood 

silent in the pulpit for a moment, because he felt there 
was something he so wanted to do, and while he bowed 
his head to say the exhortation his brain gave him the 
word “faineant ” again. He coloured with anger, to 
be aware of such a word at a time like that, when all 
his soul . . . 

“ My fellow-men in Christ,” he said, and drowned 
the word with his voice. They were fighting for God 
against evil incarnate, and their arms must be strong ; 
they were fronting temptation each hour of their lives, 
and their souls must be firm ; they were set in slippery 
places, and their consciences must light them. “ Christ 
is love,” he told them, “ Christ must win ! . . .” And 
he drew a fine picture, in words they could enjoy, of 



TANTALUS 


7 

Daniel’s victory in the lion’s den. Rows and rows 
of faces stared at him, rows and rows of hidden 
hearts that, as a man, he longed to reach suc¬ 
cessfully. . . . 

The men were roaring “ Fight the good fight ” next 
moment, and soon the chimes were ringing to call the 
parish to the " morning service.” 

There was a fair scattering of officers, and old 
civilians, with white moustaches and an air of doing 
their bit by cursing all the powers that be. Good 
Mrs. Jennifer, in rhubarb brown, with her strong blue 
eyes fixed on the cross ; and in the front seat a little 
boy of six, who never ceased to turn and twist and 
wriggle till he got outside again. 

The organist played grandly. The choir came in 
two by two ; ten pairs of little boys followed by some 
gawky youths, a bull-beef looking shop assistant and 
a stalwart blacksmith, four or five double-chinned 
altos, the curate—a good man with a face that shone 
like candle-grease—and lastly the vicar again, more 
earnest, more imposing than ever ; and very slowly, at 
the pace of a slug’s funeral, they marched up and took 
their places in the chancel. 

The church was full, for all the residents of Hartake 
were respectable, well-to-do people ; they lived for the 
most part in neat little bungalows and “ country 
houses ” made of stucco with red roofs, and with 
hedges of bright green euonymus surrounding the old 
slate-roofed town like a circle of prim flowers ; and the 
ladies who walked out of them every Sunday morning 
wore pony-skin coats, or collars of Russian fox ; they 
had fashionable veils on their wind-chapped faces; and 


8 


TANTALUS 


plenty of life in their eyes. They looked at each other 
with pleasure and approval, they were doing their duty, 
and that always makes one feel solid and safe, they 
were Christians in church on a Sunday. And as the 
oxygen in the air was exhausted, first one yawned and 
then another, and the air grew warmer. . . . 

“ O come, let us sing unto the Lord,” cried all these 
ladies, and many looked absently at words they knew 
by heart, and many stared at the altar. All the 
summer, till the hay was cut, white marguerites were 
set there; during the autumn, dahlias—the dark, dusky 
sort; and all the winter, brown or white chrysanthe¬ 
mums, flowers with no scent; but who ever thought of 
putting roses in a church ? 

The vicar’s wife sat through the lessons, her eyes, 
like deep blue wells of zeal, fast on the curate while 
he read : “For what is the hope of the hypocrite, 
though he hath gained, when God taketh away his 
soul? ” 

Presently they all sang “ How sweet the name of 
Jesus sounds,” and knelt down for a litany ; old people 
bowed their heads as one bows to the rates and taxes* 
but the vicar gave heart and mind to each word—it 
was his way of “ doing his bit.” 

In the pulpit he had the harder task of gripping the 
minds of all these well-dressed women (whose faces 
wore a guarded look as though already armoured for 
some surreptitious thrust). 

He had prepared his sermon yesterday; his text 
from the Epistle, . . do that which is good and thou 
shalt have praise of the same,” was set on optimistic 
lines calculated to brace the “ good ” ; they were 


TANTALUS 


9 


listening—well-satisfied, an angelic smile on the faces 
of ladies of temperament, an assurance of “ praise '' on 
the more stolid faces ; he had created that subtle chord 
of secret sympathy, he could speak now, and he found 
himself saying : . . let us look to it that we fail not 

through secret temptations. What does it mean when 
some chance word or phrase clings to the mind ? Has 
it discovered an affinity there ? Search it out! Some 
evil word mocking us in its injustice ; I say to you, my 
brethren, search it out, be sure there is no truth in it, 
and if no truth, then why a sting ? Why this haunting 
power ? There is a little French word, I pray God it 
applies to none of us in these days : ‘ Faineant ,' a more 
subtle word than ‘ idle,’ ‘ slack.' Does that word 
bother you ? Look to it! We are all workers, every 
moment occupied for our country's need—but are we 
seeking God with all our might ? . . ." 

The vicar's face burnt red like a man who has stripped 
in public, but he felt relieved ; perhaps the same load 
slips from the mind of the peasant who has made con¬ 
fession ; he goes home to sin again, but he is purged 
for the moment; so the vicar finished warmly on a 
charming note of innocence and freedom, and then all 
sang with great force and effect 

“ The people that in darkness sat 
A glorious light hath seen.” 

A few minutes later his congregation were outside, 
chatting at the happy speed of those who have been 
debarred from talking for an hour and a half or more. 

“ Did you see—a woman killed her baby by giving 
it a bloater ? " Miss Wurrell was saying, and Mrs. 
Bigthorn, cheerily : “ Black smallpox at Berlin ! " 


10 


TANTALUS 


. . Next door to starving ! ” “No end of women 
dead.” “ Good news ! Cold ? Yes, terrific. . . .” 

The vicar came out rubbing his hands, and meeting 
a chaplain asked him to lunch ; Mrs. Jennifer frowned, 
the invitation was shifted to tea ; dinner on Sundays 
was an uncomfortable meal at the vicarage (a large 
joint of cold salt beef, that would be eaten as it stood 
till it was finished). 

The vicar had barely time to get his feet warm after 
lunch before he was off to Sunday school and the 
children's service ; he came in at four in a glow of rosy 
self-satisfaction, this long day of splendid work was 
nearly over ! 

“ Grand—the way the fellows come to church now,” 
was the vicar’s text for their conversation. 

“ But there’s a lot of immorality ...” the chaplain’s 
sour reply. 

“ They have their own services, and then come on to 
mine ! ” twinkled the vicar. 

“ They like to shout hymns,” grumbled his visitor ; 
he had been a High Church parson before he joined the 
Army, and the “ spirit of religion ” had been a sort of 
temperature, kept up by use of candles, red and silver 
lamps, Gregorian music, coloured cloaks and the breath 
of incense ; it wanted humble, adoring figures, not 
these rugged men who stamped their feet. 

“ There’ll come a big revival,” he said at intervals, 
shaking his head. 

“ Oh, it’s come ! ” cried the vicar’s wife ; the vicar 
stroked his lips ; had it come, or was it coming ? And 
if so, how ? 

“ The men are waking up . . .’’he said at last, but 


TANTALUS 


ii 


against his speech rose a vision of the armoured faces of 
his female congregation, and something of the chaplain's 
gloom fell on him. 

“ You know the Canadians have been disappointed," 
the latter told him, “ at what they found over here ; 
religious fellows some of them, very ; shocked at our 
modern Sunday in Society. Of course I’m not speaking 
of our English countryside ; God knows what these 
fellows expected, but they haven’t found it! Going 
back with a different picture of the ‘ old country,’ very 
sad . . 

At six o’clock the chaplain left him ; bells were 
chiming, the snow had ceased ; it was that moment 
between daylight and dark, when the last lemon light 
in the west has died, and the birds have hidden. 

“ Daniel,’’ said Mrs. Jennifer, “ Maggie wants us to 
have the children.’’ 

“ The children ? Good ! Of course they can come. 
Who’s it this time—that old Miss Woolley ? ’’ 

“No, it’s a French governess.’’ 

Maggie Buckle was one of Mrs. Jennifer’s sisters, she 
lived in London, and her little girl, Hilda, aged twelve, 
and her two little boys, Dunstan and Claude, aged eight 
and seven, often came as paying guests to their uncle 
and aunt in the country. Thinking of them, Daniel 
hurried gaily to his evening service. 

The church was warm by that time, and full of 
soldiers, townsfolk, “ sweethearts,’’ shop-girls, kitchen- 
maids. 

It was his curate’s turn to preach, unfortunately, and 
all the time that good man sententiously drew morals 
from the Book of Judges the vicar twitched and 


12 


TANTALUS 


fidgeted ; they wanted something lively ! cheerful! 
satisfying ! Some men were afraid to smile ! he loved 
to bring the whole crowd close to him with an innocent 
joke which made them listen ! Ah, it was grand to 
hear them shout: “ God save the King ! ” Brave 
fellows, pretty girls, good people. 

The vicar went home satisfied. But at half-past 
eight a middle-aged Canadian soldier called to ask 
admission to the Bible class ; a man with a placid 
yellow face, eyes like moonlit water, a round bald 
forehead, and the smile of a child of six. 

“ I hear you aren’t satisfied ? ” the vicar asked him ; 
they were standing at the front door, and could see the 
half-moon lying on her back above the trees ; the man 
looked up at her : “ Life’s short,” he answered. 

“ It’s seeing all these motor cars about on Sunday,” 
began Mrs. Jennifer. 

“ It’s seeing we know nothing,” said the soldier ; 
his smile was disarming, he seemed to draw closer to 
them in the dark : “ Have you ever been up moun¬ 
tains ? ” he asked. “ Have you seen the country shift 
as you get up ? ” 

“You mean horizons ? ” 

“ I mean the Church; she’s standing still—we don’t 
know God yet.” 

“ We do know,” cried the vicar’s wife : “ the Church 
is God’s own means of revelation ! We do know, don’t 
we, Daniel ? ” 

Something pressed the vicar’s heart and brain, it was 
as though a spirit had challenged him for truth ; but 
as a clergyman, with his wife’s shocked face at his 
shoulder, he answered reverently : “We know.” 


TANTALUS 


13 


And in his bed that night a word he couldn’t catch 
came and pricked at him, and bothered him, almost as 
if he had been a ne’er-do-well convicted of fraud. 

“ O God,” he prayed, and was conscious of his wife’s 
voice : "I expect that man goes to chapel, dear.” 


CHAPTER II 


Daniel Jennifer and his wife had lived at Hartake 
for eight years ; they were liked and respected ; if 
there were some who thought the vicar’s wife rather 
slow, there were a few who thought the vicar rather 
fast—ecclesiastically—he had introduced a modern 
translation of the Bible. 

But the more intellectual circle, who lived to them¬ 
selves on the hills outside, were scarcely aware of him, 
nor was he aware of them ; if they heard the bells at 
Hartake while they played golf on Sunday morning, it 
merely suggested another service in the same old 
rut. . . . Jennifer didn’t consider himself in the rut— 
he read the Hibbert Journal and the Spectator ! His 
father, a man with a red face, tremendous vitality, and 
no religious feeling at all, had been a very popular 
clergyman at a seaside village ; his mother, an intel¬ 
lectual lady with a pale oval face, dark hair and dark 
eyes, was a scholar and a recluse. 

Daniel had gone into the Church as a matter of 
course, he had his father’s vitality and love of leader¬ 
ship, and his mother’s mind, perhaps something of her 
spirit; for all her quiet ways at the seaside rectory, her 
brown eyes often looked as if she asked for something 
more . . . and young Daniel at five-and-twenty had 
gone slumming. He had made the plunge like a diver, 
his ship being the Church, his breathing tube the 


TANTALUS 


15 


settled creed, his pearls—a few souls rescued. His 
vitality had found its outlet in organisation, and 
immediate hard work checked his mother’s spirit in 
him ; he made demands on bishops and other clergy, 
he got up magazines and started campaigns, enjoying 
the fight, rubbing his hands if he was satirised in some 
ecclesiastical magazine. 

His wife, Matilda Campion, was a clergyman’s 
daughter, one of a quiet, hard-working, Low Church 
family of old standing in the county ; she helped him 
manfully, and if they had little time together they were 
too busy to notice it. He had asked her to marry him 
one summer holiday, while staying with a college 
friend, when he was still a curate ; and a yellow photo 
on his mantelpiece showed her as she had been then : 
a handsome girl in a hideous dress, her glossy hair 
dragged back so tight that her round head shone like a 
hazel-nut. There were the same strong, honest features 
he knew now, the same integrity of purpose, the same 
lack of imagination. A good wife, and mother of three 
children, “ a good Christian,” people called her ; Daniel 
Jennifer told her most of his thoughts, and all he had 
said, but he had ceased to listen to her answers. 

His eldest daughter, Margaret (who wished to teach), 
was now a Red Cross nurse ; his son Clement had left 
Cambridge for Army work, intending to enter the 
Church when the war was over; Thelma, the youngest, 
was still at school. 

Daniel was shaving himself a few days later when the 
conviction stole over him : “ Spring has come ! ” 

There was a stillness, not that death-trance which falls 
upon ripe woods in autumn, but a stillness of recovery 


i6 


TANTALUS 


Old trees in the garden were breathing visibly, a scent 
of pine and cedar wood ; the first yellow tips of bulbs 
showed, the air was fresh. It had rained all night, and 
would rain again, and meantime things were growing. 
Daniel had an impulse to go out. He didn’t want his 
wife “ poking questions ” at him, so he walked down 
softly ; this early outing, with its spice of the unusual, 
was a little preparation for the children. This pale 
sunlight was so clean and young-looking ; but instead 
of adventuring forward his thoughts went back ; as a 
child he had lived by the sea, and now at Hartake, 
when half asleep, would fancy the rustling trees were 
waves. Children, and the sea ! What more could one 
want ? He felt particularly glad of their coming this 
year : “ We all need waking up,” he thought; “we 
want the simple outlook, faith, acceptance, the simple 
love of God.” But while he framed these thoughts, 
his brown eyes dwelt now on one tiny bulb tip, now on 
a clump of violet leaves ; and Fan, his Irish setter, 
stretched herself and yawned. 

The prayer bell sounded. There was dear old Tilly 
looking out of the porch, puzzled and upset at this 
irregularity ! and a longing to play truant seized the 
vicar. 

“ I couldn’t make you hear,” his wife kept saying. 

But Daniel was his father’s son that morning, 
enjoying the full pleasure that accompanies a feeling 
of recovery. He had forgotten the soldier until his 
wife mentioned the incident, and then said heartily : 
“ Capital fellow, get him to come to my Bible class. 
If I had my way-” 

When Jennifer began : " If I had my way-” 




TANTALUS 


*7 


Mrs. Jennifer did two things : she finished whatever 
it was she had in hand (if they were in their bedroom 
she completed her toilet, if she was writing she collected 
scattered sheets and shut the blotter) ; then while 
Daniel was happily supposing himself to be the Arch¬ 
bishop of Canterbury, she said : "Yes, dear ? ” and 
slipped away. 

This morning she went to the kitchen, and Jennifer, 
brought to sudden silence by her absence, looked out 
of the window ; those smoke-like clouds had thinned 
and vanished, there was blue sky at last, a day for 
the gods ! 

The vicar wished he had his son a baby still, to toss 
into the air, while he told his wife : " The little beggar's 
growing ! ” He missed his daughters' kisses on a day 
like this, though they were like their mother, un¬ 
demonstrative and rather shy ; Margaret with his own 
brown eyes darkened thoughtfully, Thelma with her 
mother’s pure, deep blue. As some intellectual had 
said: "To meet the Campion eye was to meet 
conscience naked ! ” 

Well! his children were out in the world, and if the 
nest was a little empty—(here he rubbed his hands)— 
he had plenty of visiting to do. And he set off gaily, 
greeting every man he met; those who knew him 
received a handclasp, a nod, a smile; strangers had 
his high-crowned hat touched to them. 

This hat was smooth and large and solid-looking, 
with a very curly brim ; it had a look of jolly dignity, 
which was just what the vicar liked to convey. 

Walking at a great pace he was suddenly conscious of 
the overwhelming song of an early lark. It made him 


i8 TANTALUS 

lean over his dog and stroke her head : “ We ain’t old 
yet! ” he told her. 

It was true Daniel Jennifer was fair and rosy, tall, 
good-looking, with a smooth skin that coloured easily, 
a slightly hooked nose and brown eyes soft as pansy 
petals ; the lines in his face were all made by pleasure, 
screwing up his eyes to smile, lifting his brows in mock 
astonishment, laughing, praying, enjoying himself. He 
had reached that time when man, like a garden full of 
warmth and quiet nights, wants a little Indian summer 
of enjoyment. 


CHAPTER III 


The London train had just steamed in, handkerchiefs 
already waved, a little girl’s voice pierced the gale of 
smoke, and headlong over the luggage came two flying, 
thin, black legs. The vicar had his neck dragged down, 
his cheeks kissed, while he stood like a tree upon which 
a flock of birds alight, entirely possessed by their 
vitality. 

A girl was helping his wife with the hand-luggage. 

“ Is that your Mademoiselle ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes,” cried Hilda : “ Mam’selle! here’s Uncle 

Dan.” 

“ Welcome to Hartake,” said the vicar genially. 

In the cab his little niece gripped his hand. 

“ There’s Hartake Church ! ” she shouted to the 
governess ; and Daniel saw a small black toque, the 
oval of a pretty cheek outlined against the sunset; 
“ Better than that old Miss Woolley ! ” was his thought. 

“ Have you been long in Town ? ” he asked her. 

“ Is my sister’s new cook staying ? ” asked Mrs. 
Jennifer. 

At the front door there was the same ecstatic hustle- 
bustle as at the station, the three children jumping up 
and down, stroking the horse, chasing the cat, and 
such a roar of laughter when their aunt dropped the 
umbrellas. The governess slipped backwards and 
forwards from the cab to the house. 


19 


C 2 


20 


TANTALUS 


“ You speak English ? ” discovered Mrs. Jennifer. 
“I’m giving you my eldest daughter’s room, it’s drier 
than the spare room. Will you come up ? ” 

When Mrs. Jennifer hurried down again she ran to 
the study. 

“I’d no time to look,” she exclaimed; “ what 

news ? ” 

“ News ? ” A pleasant sense he had had of being 
borne up by life-deserted Daniel. “ Nothing fresh,” 
he told his wife. “ One placard in the town : ‘ Air 
raid ’ somewhere. War ”—he sighed ; the sound of 
the tea bell reached him then. 

The governess sat facing the window, looking “ very 
French ” her host and hostess both decided, but for 
different reasons—the latter because there was just a 
suspicion of powder on her nose, the former because 
she lacked a certain heavy presence he was used to, as 
though a dainty little vision of politeness sat there. 
Mademoiselle Dubois kept looking at the trees against 
the sunset, great black giants, and every time she 
looked there seemed less of her there. The vicar 
noticed that she had brown eyes, prominent cheek 
bones, straight nose, and a set little chin. 

That fallacy of the parson supposed to “ eat his head 
off all the week, and jaw on Sundays,” was one the 
vicar often ran to earth ; here was a case in point, the 
children’s first evening, and he had to leave them to 
his wife while he held a meeting with two other clergy¬ 
men in his study. What would she do with them ? 
That delicious hour when the fire is hot, the room warm, 
and spirits are released for pleasure . . . Sitting with 
his brother priests, discussing certain obscure passages 


TANTALUS 


21 


in the Book of Job, an odd feeling squeezed his heart; 
they were hymn-singing ! In the gloaming, no doubt, 
with just the piano candles, and his good wife playing ; 
her earnest face set forward, her blue eyes on the music, 
her hands on the notes (wrong ones very often ; she 
was no musician ; each chord fell heavy as a soldier's 
step). 

“ Jerusalem, my happy home ! " 

The clergymen shut their Bibles, and queer smiles 
came about their lips. 

“ The Church's one foundation," the children were 
singing. 

Now Hilda's voice rang out alone : 

“ Every morning the red sun 
Rises warm and bright ; 

But the evening cometh on. 

And the dark, cold night, 

There's a bright land far away-” 

The pianist struck a discord, the hymn book had 
fallen ; the little boys could be heard laughing ; what 
did they know of the dark, cold night ? 

“ Every spring the sweet young flowers 
Open bright and gay. 

Till the chilly autumn hours 
Wither them away- ” 

(“ And one of those little boys is destined for the 
Church," thought Daniel.) 

“ Onward, Christian soldiers ! " (Bang, bang, bang, 
grand chords, and that twiddle at the end of the eighth 
line !) 

“ ... All one body we, 

One in hope and doctrine, 

One in chari-tee-" 

The children and his wife were too triumphant, they 


22 


TANTALUS 


couldn’t be thinking of what they said ! “ We don’t 

think enough of the meanings of our hymns and 
psalms,” he had often preached ; but if we thought, 
could we sing them ? 

“ That’s the spirit we must reanimate,” his brother 
clergymen told each other ; “ you find it at the front,” 
said one ; “ and at our outdoor meetings.” 

“ The Parish Church-” began another. 

“ The Town Church,” said Daniel, “ is waking up.” 

“ Oh, yes,” they all agreed, “ people listen more, the 
prophecies have a direct bearing upon the news they 
have read at breakfast; a good sermon goes straight 
home. But we-” 

“ We have a great responsibility,” chimed in the 
other two. Then, with a sigh, as if conscious that 
responsibility must be linked to action, they returned 
to their study of the Book of Job. 

The servants had opened the kitchen door to hear 
the “ hymn singin’ ” ; another listener sat upstairs 
alone, Simonne Dubois, in a small dark room, which 
smelled of evergreens. She was experiencing that first 
hour of solitude in a new atmosphere when you meet 
the spirit of a house. Branches of the cedar tree 
tapped upon her window, the guttering candle smoked, 
a smell of rosemary was mixed with oatmeal soap; 
very old, very slow, was the spirit of this house, she 
might sit there a hundred years, it would show no 
curiosity about her ; but it wasn't dreary like the one 
she had come from. Could anything happen here ? 

In France, at college, she had looked forward to 
“ something happening,” she had looked forward when 
she stepped on to the boat; but the few adventures 




TANTALUS 


23 

she had had were snatched outside, could they be here ? 
There came the restless tap-tap of branches on the 
window. 

Simonne was twenty-three ; when she smiled, or was 
excited, such vitality came into her face that she looked 
beautiful; she was fond of sitting with her eyes half 
closed, and would open them suddenly ! She had long 
dark lashes and thin eyebrows ; her hair was that 
glossy, blue-black seen most often in the South of 
France and Italy. Her hands were clever at sewing, 
trimming hats, doing flowers, arranging things ; she 
was full of energy, she loved pleasure and hated routine, 
and a governess’ life was all routine ! “I wonder who 
is the master in this house ? ” she asked herself. (Where 
she had come from it was the mistress.) Mrs. Jennifer, 
she remembered then, had waited upon the vicar at 
tea. “ So it’s the gentleman,” she thought. 

But after supper, alone with Mr. and Mrs. Jennifer, 
her spirits sank. Daniel was preoccupied ; his wife 
talked about her sister, and her sister’s work, the 
“ League of Christian Propaganda Distribution ” ; the 
room was still; and a queer feeling came to the gover¬ 
ness as if she had been marooned on some old shoal- 
bank, high and dry above the sea, remote from tempest, 
and still more remote from life. 

“ This England ! ” she thought, “ even in war time ! ” 
and she looked at Mrs. Jennifer’s bright, starry eyes, 
and at the vicar, what a fine, handsome head he had, 
features—a little hard, nose and chin masterful, 
frowning now at an evening paper. 

She didn’t matter in this house either, nobody cared 
to explore her thoughts ; that subtle, spiritual curiosity 


24 


TANTALUS 


she was so full of had never been dreamed of here. 
And when it came to bedtime she felt no gratitude for 
Mrs. Jennifer’s repeated questions as to whether she 
had “ everything ” she wanted, or for the vicar’s rather 
grandfatherly, but kind “ good-night.” The cedar tree 
outside was more to her liking, and she sat a long while 
staring at it; then searched the bookshelf for some¬ 
thing to read. She picked out “ Robinson Crusoe,” but 
the moralising of that “ wise, grave, ancient man,” 
Crusoe’s father, depressed her ; she felt she could well 
understand young Crusoe’s desire to escape ; then the 
“ cap full of wind ” incident getting the better of her 
mood, she lay propped up in bed, and read till midnight. 

A thaw set in with a sound of pent-up breathing that 
passed along rows of dripping houses, and blurred their 
window panes, and filled the people in them with a 
strange desire for spring. Its sound was in the vicar’s 
ears the evening that he stood ready dressed to go and 
dine with the new parson at their neighbouring parish, 
Hyssop. 

A dinner party was an event to Mrs. Jennifer, it made 
her nervous, and that made her late ; her husband 
disliked being late, and the feeling that he was ready 
and she wasn’t, increased her nervousness. 

Daniel stood downstairs drumming on the rug box, 
he was impatient, now he examined his nails, then 
called “ Tilly,” for the sixth time. 

“I’m coming! ” His wife’s voice suggested calamity, 
and a shadow fell on the vicar’s spirit. 

“ It’s all right, Uncle Dan,” came a child’s voice, 
“ Ma’mselle’s doing her up.” 

“ Then come and kiss me good-night i ” 


TANTALUS 


25 


A sound of scampering filled the passages, and next 
moment Hilda, in a red jersey and short red skirt, 
Dunstan, and little Claude, were all telling him about 
a mouse they’d seen. He took Hilda’s face between 
his long, cold hands to feast a little on its freshness, she 
was like a poppy—all vigorous colour, and full dark 
hair. 

“ Ma’mselle hates mice ! ” she told him as a merry 
secret. At that moment Mademoiselle herself came 
into the gaslight to hunt for Mrs. Jennifer’s goloshes. 
She reminded Daniel of the wood-sorrel in Devon, 
small and slim and yet complete ; although a foreigner 
she seemed no longer a stranger, pretty things are never 
strange, the heart welcomes them so quickly. 

“ Madame is just ready,” she reassured him, and two 
minutes later Mrs. Jennifer came down. 

“ I wish-” thought the vicar, but couldn’t formu¬ 

late that wish, it was too old and big ; it began with 
her glossy, grey-threaded brown hair combed back so 
tightly, and ended with her dress, that everlasting old^ 
dull heliotrope. 

Now she put on a small brown cap, jamming it down 
hard for safety’s sake, and got into her mackintosh. 
But Daniel had lost all appetite for the occasion, it had 
been spoilt; quite how, or why, he would not ask himself. 

While they hurried up hill from Hartake to Hyssop, 
she was wondering if the house would be quite safe, her 
mind turned backward still and full of details : chicken- 
food, milk for Claude, the bedroom blinds, the front 
door key—had she got it, or had he ? And all the time 
a sound of water filled the night as if a reservoir had 
burst, and the country was alive with its trickling. 



26 


TANTALUS 


Returning three hours later, the vicar and his wife 
were soaked to the skin. 

“ What a sad man this Mr. Percy seems ! ” began 
Mrs. Jennifer, “ What was it he said about ‘ days of 
retreat ’ ? ” And as her husband didn’t answer, she 
hurried on : “ How well you spoke about the Balkan 
problem, dear ; they were struck by what you said.” 
But Daniel thought with anger : “ Tilly ! there it is ! 
she rubs me up the wrong way all the time ! ” He had 
left their neighbour’s house feeling successful, and at 
Tilly’s words doubt had damped his spirit, doubt and 
self-distrust. 

Why had he out-talked, out-shone this new rector, 
spreading over his victory a certain gay agreeableness 
so that the last hour had been his entirely ? 

If only the new man had been some fresh young 
fellow! What pleasure to have pulled together, 
fighting for the Church ! As it was “ he’s one of that 
lot,” each would think of the other to-night : they 
belonged to different camps i A year ago this would 
have spurred the vicar, now it depressed him ; there 
was something stale about it, like the smell of the old 
leaves rotting in the rain. 

Yes, he had beaten the new man ; and the fellow’s 
wife had seen it too, a fine bird ! She had sung four 
Indian songs in a high, shrill voice that was poured out 
round and above the melody, as if a gale had seized a 
feather. This thin, aesthetic fellow had been asked to 
play the piano. Softly he had slipped on to the stool, 
his fingers seemed to feel the notes in silence for a 
moment, as you see a long-legged spider lift his limbs 
before he runs ; softly he had pressed the pedals ; his 


TANTALUS 


27 

music never swelled to power, it was a whisper sup¬ 
pressed and fleet, like the passing of a hare through the 
cover. Daniel had felt his heart sink inexplicably ; 
but their hostess had smiled, nodding her head. Only 
with that sign of approval a tragic look had pinched 
the new man's face : the look of a creature conscious, 
for a moment, of captivity. It had been instantly 
masked, but not before Daniel heard their hostess tell 

him : “I was anxious to get a man like you-" 

(which meant that she wished to get back, for her own 
church, those who had strayed to Daniel's !). Daniel 
had smiled at the time ; now, outdoors in the dark he 
felt sad. 

“ That fellow’s wrong ! ” he exclaimed aloud. 

“ My dear ? " 

“ We want new life ! a bigger, broader—look out ! ” 
They were in their own garden and Daniel had just 
walked head first into a holly bush. 

The front door opened next minute, and against the 
thin red lantern light appeared the dark head of the 
governess. 

“You should have gone to bed," they told her ; but 
for answer she shrugged her shoulders, bade them 
“ good-night " and ran upstairs. 

“ She looks tired, it's dull for her," said Mrs. Jennifer, 
“ we must make her ‘ feel at home.' " 

The vicar brightened ; here, at all events was some¬ 
thing fresh. He registered a mental vow to " talk to 
her " next day. 


CHAPTER IV 


Accordingly, when the children were skipping after 
breakfast Simonne was surprised by a visit from the 
vicar. 

“ How did you like London ? ” he asked her, seating 
himself by the schoolroom fire. “ I know my sister-in- 
law’s house—a bit gloomy, eh ? ” His brown eyes said 
that he knew his sister-in-law too ! and a smile answered 
him. “Yes,” he continued, “ I’ve stayed in that 
square in Bayswater, and I’ve thought how miserable 
those wretched trees look in the fog. Are you a 
Catholic ? ” 

“Yes, but I’ve been to College-” 

“ And came straight out to teach ? Tell me, do you 
find scope enough ? ” 

The governess looked at him. “ But to teach—what 
is there better ? ” 

Daniel felt like a pianist who has struck a discord. 

“ Of course,” he agreed gravely ; “ and does life 
satisfy you ? ” 

“ Life—I thought it was different.” 

“You thought you would be the centre of the 
universe, and found you weren’t. I know ! I thought 
I should be a bishop ! ” 

“ But perhaps you will be.” 

“ And perhaps you’ll play the chief part some day.” 

“ No, Monsieur. I discover that a governess is useful 

28 


TANTALUS 


29 

in a house, like the gas and the hot water, but she has 
no voice.” 

The vicar began to wish that he had not left this girl 
to his wife. 

‘'You were lonely last night ? ” he asked kindly. 
Three hours of solitude in the vicarage dining-room by 
a dying fire, under dripping trees, on a night when the 
wind took the form of a sudden sigh heaved out from 
the heart of the garden, was enough to depress any one. 
“ Now, you’re to feel like a little friend, my dear. Tell 
us what you think ; don’t sit in silence.” Human 
kindness spoke in his voice, and the girl’s face responded. 

“We are waking up,” he told her. 

“ Is this a new town ? ” 

“ It’s a very old village grown into a town ; but we 
have interesting people. Have you many relations or 
friends fighting ? ” (“ What swift looks the French 

can give ! ” he thought next moment.) 

“ A particular friend ? Is he French ? English ! ” 
Daniel could see her blushing. “ Do you know how 
many couples I marry a week ? The list in church 
takes quite five minutes ! ” he told her. “ I’m becoming 
quite a matrimonial agent. To you young people quite 
an old confessor. Is your friend at the front ? ” 

Asking questions was a prerogative of his as a vicar ; 
he did it smoothly, nodding his head and clinging to the 
subject when a farmer or a lawyer would have bitten it, 
digested it, and let it go. This clinging to talk had 
grown on him in the last ten years ; it was like drink to 
other men, a way of forgetting himself. So Daniel sat 
on in the schoolroom while the children fed the robins, 
and his wife gave orders, and the little French girl told 


30 


TANTALUS 


her story. She had met a soldier by the Serpentine, 
one of those half-misty mornings. 

“ I know, I know/’ broke in the vicar. “ The sun 
looks through a bluish fog and shines on the montbretia 
beds, and Peter Pan stands piping . . .” 

She had seen him on the same seat that she always 
sat on, and he had smiled ; he had come next day and 
they had begun to talk. He was an officer, a Colonial 
on leave, and glad (the vicar guessed) to talk to any 
one ; certainly Simonne in brown velvet, with her bright 
eyes on the Serpentine, must have given him pleasure 
enough. 

“ The children used to tease me,” she admitted ; 
“ that made it all the more ... I had to pretend, to 
make them play round the statue while we sat by the 
tree.” 

“ Did the gentleman propose ? ” asked Daniel. 

“ Not yet.” 

“ But he said he would see you again ? ” 

Another swift look, and the vicar laughed. “ Better 
than college, eh ? ” 

“ Oh, Monsieur ! I knew something would happen. 
I thought when I stood on the ship—is it now ? And 
in each house, until at last ...” In her eagerness the 
governess leaned forward ; shyness, distrust, secret 
mockery had vanished ; her cheeks glowed, her pretty 
lips were parted. 

“ My dear ! ” whispered Daniel, “ at any time, if I 
can help-” 

“ But thank you, Monsieur ! ... it is the first time 
I speak of it.” Such months of burdened silence 
trembled in her voice that he felt obliged to take her 



TANTALUS 


3i 

hand. His clasp was answered, her pressure said, 
“ We’re friends ! ” 

“ Yes ! ” declared Daniel, and his brown eyes tried 
to give the same assurance that the soldier-friend’s had 
given : but she wasn’t looking. Feeling all at once 
superfluous, he got up, and saying “ Anything you 
want, any time, you know who to come to,” went out 
to morning service. 

Left alone, Simonne didn’t call the children ; she fell 
into a daydream where the rather nebulous figure of the 
offlcer shone out like a saint in a Burne-Jones window. 
It was the little thrill of life she had felt when he 
touched her ; the sense of power his smile had given 
which was real and solid in memory ; for she was full of 
romance still, with a quick heart forced to dissemble, 
a natural vitality veiled in silence. She had received 
her first check from the English families she had stayed 
with. The governess leaned her elbows on her knees 
and her face on her hands, and stared at the fire. All 
the tossing, tearing of the ivy-leaves entered her mood ; 
a longing to fly, to be free, to be powerful like gusts of 
wind which shook the house. Impetuously she jumped 
up and ran to the window, but next moment a rain¬ 
storm wiped out everything. 

Simonne called the children then, and set their 
books out. 

“ Auntie’s got a tame robin,” they told her. “ Auntie 
doesn’t like toads ! Do you know what ? Uncle Dan 
says he’ll take us to Lion Head. You’ll come, 
Ma’mselle ? ” 

“ Assez. Take your place, Heelda.” 

“ Right-0 ! La cigale ay ant chante tout Vete ...” 


32 


TANTALUS 


Simonne’s day at the vicarage began at seven ; she 
attended prayers (it being considered “ right ” for her 
position with the children) and knelt in line, having 
Hilda on one side and on the other Mrs. Jennifer’s 
earnest profile next to little Claude. Daniel made 
these prayers short but impressive ; his wife’s “ Amen ” 
was the seal of sanctity. Then they faced an economic 
breakfast, much disliked by the French girl, who 
couldn’t assimilate porridge. Half-an-hour of play for 
the children, lessons till twelve, a short outing, lunch, 
another walk ; if it was wet, an hour to herself ; then 
tea and a story book read aloud. She put the children 
to bed and was followed by Mrs. Jennifer, who came to 
hear their prayers. 

Her own room (Margaret Jennifer’s) looked out 
towards the church ; there was a text, “ Surely the 
Lord is in this place,” and two large photos of the 
vicar—one as a handsome undergraduate, the other as 
a lad in a hockey team. 

That night, Simonne, sitting at Margaret’s table, 
wrote to her one girl friend in London (an English day- 
governess who also took her pupils to the Serpentine) : 

" . . . My employer’s sister, Mrs. Jennifer, is one of 
those very good people who have no imagination at all 
for cooking, and I become sick to death of her table. 
She is simple to look at, but at heart I think she is not 
so simple. Her husband, the clergyman, is all the wit 
of this house : he talks. But when he has been most 
merry then he looks most sad. I like him best. 

“ In that dreadful house I come from it is the lady 
who is the egoist; in this house I think it is the gentle¬ 
man, but —tant pis ! he is kind.” 


TANTALUS 


33 


That very afternoon he had come up to the school¬ 
room again. “ I’m all alone,” he had said. “ Then 
let’s have a tea-party ! ” they had cried. So they had 
carried up the tray and the greyish bread and butter, 
and the little hard, pale “ cookies ” made with carraway 
seeds (which she detested). And she had arranged the 
table : Hilda’s purple hyacinth, and the bowl of yellow 
crocus-buds. 

“ Ma’mselle shall pour out,” Mr. Jennifer had said. 

“ Does M’sieu like it so ? ” she had asked. 

Hilda had begged : “ Uncle ! tell us about the time 
you had to fight a costermonger in the slums ! ” 

“ Cest vrai ? ” She had felt interested. Presently 
it was she who had talked. It was pleasant to talk to 
somebody who grew more friendly. 

“ Mr. Jennifer is master here,” she thought, lying on 
her bed that night; “he smile when all go as he wish, 
but if anything not go—then I think he could be very 
angry. A strange life ... Is he happy ? ” 


CHAPTER V 


Daniel was hurrying home one afternoon a few weeks 
later; he had been to a Christian Fellowship meeting at 
a distant vicarage to discuss the meaning of a Hebrew 
word ; and now, thinking of other things, he frowned. 

It was heavy walking, he was constantly forced to 
take deep breaths as though for all the passing of the 
wind there wasn’t air enough. His dog, too, looked 
tired, and kept hanging her head as if to say : “ Master ! 
let us lie down.” And suddenly he heard a sound that 
filled the day with meaning, the crying of the first 
young lambs. It was springtime ! and Daniel stood 
still to sniff the fields. His dissertation about some¬ 
thing ancient hung round his neck ; he wanted to walk 
it off, yet his legs felt heavy, while something deep in 
him responded to and joined in that cry. Seeing a great 
bird sail overhead he felt envious. 

Reaching the crest of the hill, Jennifer crossed the 
stubble to a sheep pen roped with sailcloth, where, on 
a yellow lair of straw, the old sheep stood feeding at the 
cribs. The lambs lay in groups by the hurdles, sleeping 
in each other’s warmth, their heads upon each other’s 
necks, their ears set out to listen to his dog. When the 
sun shone, the lambs smiled. Daniel watched their 
mouths curl up and felt mean and sorry, knowing he 
would eat roast lamb at Easter. 

But the old mothers only shouted “ Ba-a-a ! ” to be 


TANTALUS 


35 


answered by a thin shrill chorus, when one would walk 
sedately to each group of lambs in turn, smelling at 
them, her nose being cleverer than her yellow eyes. 

Daniel leaned his arms on the hurdles and thought: 
“ What's the use of quarrelling ? We've all got to die. 

If we could only keep an hour like this-" and above 

the lambs he heard the larks. “ Serenity," he mur¬ 
mured—and then was conscious of the most piteous 
cry of newborn lambs in a barn close by. “ Mercy !— 
Pity ! " The faces of his congregation rose before him ; 
mercy and pity became incongruous ; amid the sweet¬ 
ness of the lambs' crying was something sorrowful as 
though prophetic of their death. To Daniel it became 
a cry from the whole heart of Christendom ; it caught 
him with strange yearning; perhaps his spirit was 
bleating too ; but from old association of ideas he 
naturally saw himself as a shepherd, not as one of the 
sheep. 

But whereas he was set on a safe hilltop, his tumbled 
flock lay deep in their own mire. If he—and here he 
saw himself as the Church incarnate—went down into 
the mire too, then all security was lost. He couldn't 
reach the fields of slaughter to prevent it; he could 
only spread his hands and bless it. A sense of useless¬ 
ness attacked him, and a word which had bothered him 
before, with fresh doubt not of himself, but of the system 
he was part of ; the smell of swedes and straw seemed 
more powerful; his dog, curled asleep by a half-cut 
rick, said: “ Lie down, master! ” with every happy sigh. 

Daniel lifted his face, and far across the wattles saw 
an old white carthorse tossing his head again and 
again, to get rid of a hair that tickled his eyes. 



TANTALUS 


36 

“ Strange how uneasy, spring ! ” muttered the vicar, 
and to his dog, “ Get up, old lady ! ” 

Their road home lay through the camp, and under 
the sickly yellow quarantine flag he saw another 
clergyman standing by a wooden hut, pushing little 
pamphlets through the whitewashed window. From 
the way this tall, lean figure stooped, he recognised his 
curate. “ Ought to wear spectacles/’ thought the 
vicar for the hundredth time. 

The sight of this man, so like the caricatures of 
nervous clergymen in Punch, always riled him ; but 
he was such a “ good ” fellow, one could say nothing ! 

Home again in his own rather cold, shabby drawing¬ 
room, the vicar found Matilda making tea for Mrs. 
Percy, wife of the new man at Hyssop (a dashing soul 
who looked, at that moment, like a fine pelargonium 
in a bed of groundsel). 

Simonne was handing bread and butter, and Daniel 
saw that Percy’s eyes had discovered the French 
governess. Perhaps it was the sprig of yellow jasmine 
she was wearing on her dark blue dress. 

“ You’ve no church of your own to go to ? ” Daniel 
heard him saying, and would have joined the conversa¬ 
tion, but Mrs. Jennifer called him to hand the buns to 
Mrs. Percy. 

‘‘We hear you’re an awfully busy man ! ” the latter 
flattered him adroitly. 

“I’m not exactly idle ! ” Here Daniel smiled at his 
own wife who was looking at him with such faithful 
eyes. The new man’s wife hadn’t once looked at him 
like that. Well, there was something in being master. 

“ My husband is such a favourite,” Matilda told 


TANTALUS 


37 


their guests ; “he really makes our people feel the 
war. He wants, you see, to revive . . and for a time 
the word “ revival ” hung over the conversation like a 
banner; but it had so many meanings ! To Mrs. 
Jennifer it meant hard work; to Mrs. Percy success; to 
Daniel that “ new life ” he was waiting for; to Percy— 
but at the word he stroked his thin dark beard and 
seemed to fall into a trance. 

“Pm run off my legs ! ” Mrs. Percy was declaring 
when the postman’s knock sounded ; her hard, strong 
voice pursued Daniel to the door. “ Arthur is building 
an oratory, and I’ve started a Patriotic Cooking League. 
Have you gone into the question of National Waste, 
Mrs. Jennifer ? ” 

Simonne had already run to the hall; she was 
standing there reading a letter. When Daniel spoke, 
she looked up; he saw her lips apart, her eyes wide open, 
a flush on her cheeks. 

“ Eh ! ” he exclaimed, but the governess ran up¬ 
stairs. 

Leaving the house ten minutes later for the weekday 
evening service, Daniel met Simonne dressed to go out. 
The smile she gave him (for she was in that mood when 
a girl smiles at every one) disturbed him : he looked 
hungrily at this pretty foreigner in the dark coat, with 
the sprig of blossom under her chin. 

“I’m going out,” she told him, for no reason except 
that she must talk, and they left the house together. 

“ But look at that sky, m’sieu ! ” 

A mass of lilac clouds raked in long lines had become 
suddenly a sea of bleeding waves, while in the fore¬ 
ground the vicarage acacias rustled as if feeling, in very 


TANTALUS 


38 

truth, the push of spring. From every corner of the 
garden rose that swift twittering which begins with 
nesting time. 

Simonne and the vicar walked into the street. The 
sunset faded quickly as is the way in spring, it was 
twilight when they reached the town. The governess 
hurried away towards the post-office ; Daniel noticed 
that she had dropped her bit of jasmine. Birds were 
still twittering, the town was very quiet, the streets 
were empty. He picked up the little flower with the 
air of a man who has no fixed intention, but slowly, as 
it were impersonally, took it in the hollow of his hand. 
All at once with a gay smile he thrust the flower into 
his own buttonhole and hurried off to church. 


CHAPTER VI 


Her soldier friend had written to Simonne that he was 
returning on leave, that he would come up to London, 
and he suggested meeting her by the bookstall at 
Victoria Station. 

The new moon seemed under her feet just then ; 
Hartake itself was a breathing soul, throbbing with life 
as her own heart throbbed ; each house was in league 
with her, and the old pollarded trees down the road 
appeared like sisters whispering her joy to the street 
lamps. 

“ He wants me ! ” was the secret which made shops 
so gay. Each passing soldier knew it, and she didn't 
mind ; she had the secret in her eyes, and when he 
stared and turned his head, she laughed. 

But when the vicarage came in sight, Simonne 
hesitated. She had written at once that she would 
be at the station. Now came the question of getting 
there. Mrs. Jennifer was kind but anxious; she 
might be willing to let her go, yet think of twenty 
things that would quite prevent it. But the vicar-? 

In the depth of the garden was an old green bench 
that oozed the winter's wet through its brown fungi. 
She sat on it and, thinking of the vicar, smelt the smell 
of decay that attacks a wood in spring. 

Would he be shocked at her going alone ? Need she 
tell hinTwhy ? 


39 


40 


TANTALUS 


He would guess. She must beg to be let go, ask him 
as a favour. That photograph of him as an under¬ 
graduate came into her mind. 

But the debate sobered her, and when she sat some 
moments longer to enjoy the silence, it was not the 
vicar or the officer's gay face she saw, but night itself 
with its soft darkness, its stars that seemed tangled in 
the tops of the trees and leaped when they swayed, its 
sense of growth, its promise. Marriage didn’t cross her 
mind ; it would come in time ; it didn’t matter. What 
mattered was being loved. 

All the dreams and moods and yearnings of a young 
girl’s life were to burst into blossom like buds in May ; 
and now, in the starlight, she could feel the petals 
bursting. 

Daniel, sitting in his study that evening, by a green- 
shaded reading-lamp, was writing: “ Picture to 

yourselves Hezekiah and here, metaphorically speaking, 
Elijah—the Church. ‘ It is a day of trouble, and of 
rebuke, and blasphemy . . . lift up thy prayer for the 
remnant that is left.’ And what does Elijah say ? ” 
(A tap on the door.) " Come in ! ” (this in an impatient 
voice). 

Simonne entered. 

He had forgotten the five o’clock post; he had been 
rather pleasantly putting his mind over well-known 
ground, as an athlete performs his exercises, and had 
found a point that would “ go home.” The French 
girl saw that he had forgotten, and was sorry that she 
had ever told him anything. 

“I’ve had news which obliges me to go to London,” she 
said simply. “ Could I be spared one day next week ? ” 


TANTALUS 


4i 


“ Tut, tut! ” began the vicar. “ Go to my wife . . .” 

Hezekiah and Elijah grew dim suddenly, stamped 
out by a sense of immediate life. The girl was blushing. 
“ We must talk about this,” said the vicar gravely. 
“ Sit down. I believe you told me you have no friends 
in Town ? Ah ! you’ve heard from that acquaintance ?” 
A smile stole into his eyes. “ Alone ? ” he asked. 

" We’ve been alone before.” 

“ By the Serpentine ! ” 

“ You can trust me.” 

And Daniel wondered : ■' Can I ? ” Could he trust 
the young man ? If he were the soldier himself, he 
thought, he should certainly want a kiss or two. Well, 
well! Aloud he said : 

“ Be careful; men are freer than they were, my 
dear ; and I’m responsible.” 

" You’ll let me go ? ” 

He felt his hand being clasped. “ I can’t say no,” 
he whispered. The twinkle in his eye dissolved all 
barriers, and for five minutes he was her confidant. It 
was “ nothing,” but her quick breathing said “ every¬ 
thing ” ! They were to meet like “ friends,” and her 
bent head said “ lovers ” ! 

" What does the young man say ? ” he asked, and 
was shown the letter. 

“If I don’t see him now, perhaps I never shall 
again.” 

“ There, there, little friend.” 

“ Thank you, dear Monsieur, from my heart. It’s 
a secret.” 

When she left him he tried in vain to return to his 
book; something remained, mixed with a strange 


42 


TANTALUS 


emptiness, as if a bunch of flowers had been shaken in 
his face, then pulled away. He tucked the rug round 
his legs, and sat and listened to the children. What 
was it he had heard to-day ? The lambs ! 

“ There are absurd moments/' he mused, “ when 
even an old man’s heart starts bleating ! Old ? No, 
no, I’m not old ! ” And he sat with his eyebrows 
lifted and a look of grave astonishment. 

It was the vicar’s habit to read aloud after supper 
whatever poems he intended studying with his “ Poetry 
Circle ” ; he was taking them through a little course of 
“ men who died fighting,” and the man for the next 
meeting was an English curate killed at Mons. But 
this evening, do what he would, the vicar could put no 
heart into lines like : 

“ Great God ! how fouled my hands, 

My sight how dim ! ” 

He kept glancing over his book at the governess. 

Some fellows wrote their sermons at length, to be 
kept in elastic bands. Daniel kept instead a little 
yellow pencil in his waistcoat pocket and a notebook : 
“ Preach from daily life ! ” he often said, finding a text 
in a conversation, a sunset, a greedy starling, and, 
failing these, some point from the Lesson for the Day. 
Having got his “ point,” it was his pleasure to focus it 
sitting deep in some armchair, his lips faintly smiling, 
and in his brown eyes an introspective gaze which had 
forgotten daily life. When he fell silent that evening 
he was forming the nucleus for a sermon from the French 
girl’s face. A sermon for soldiers. The text ? He 
would look that up to-morrow. The idea ? Responsi- 


TANTALUS 


43 


bility ! A very good idea for a lot of hot-blooded boys 
in a camp. “Not one of you can foretell,” he would 
say to them, “ the effects of a single action. We all 
know how pleasant a little excitement is ; how gay it 
makes the moment when you smile quite innocently at 
some pretty girl. To touch her hand is, after all, a 
trivial action ” (here he would quarter out all the boys 
who blushed) ; “ but every action has effects—the 

smallest action is as a finger dipped in a pool of water 
causing ripples to run out. And it is not ourselves who 
always feel the whole effect, it is the troubled pool, my 
friends, the troubled pool/’ 

The troubling of the waters by the angel at Siloam 
would not hold good as a parallel; it was the evil side 
of action he wanted to show these boys. He heard his 
inner voice roll on pleasurably : “ My friends, these 
girls have hearts. These single hearts are like our 
little pool. Your daring smile may be that finger-tip, 
but have you thought that hearts may break ? You’ve 
never seen the waters fenced in some low Fen country 
flood out and drown the land ! There is a Nemesis 
attending upon pleasure ; there is . . .” 

After all it was the first part of his sermon which 
was to be the most subtle, he could trust himself for 
a fine ending; but that idea of the process of action 
and reaction in its gentlest beginnings was what 
attracted him. 

“ How delicate a thing life is ! ” he mused. As if to 
emphasise the point he looked straight at the governess. 
Certainly there was a change. The vicar was moved 
to pick up one of his “ Penny Poets,” a little orange- 
coloured paper book, faintly mottled as it might be 


44 TANTALUS 

snake’s skin—a man he was fond of, the American poet 
Lowell. 

“ Of all the myriad moods of mind 

That through the soul come thronging. 

Which one was e’er so dear, so kind, 

So beautiful as Longing ? ” 

He read aloud ; a feeling that he was speaking the very 
language of the girl’s heart at that moment made him 
read intimately. 

“ A little of thy merriment, 

Of thy sparkliug, light content. 

Give me, my cheerful brook,” 

he asked her, with the forefinger of his right hand 
raised, swaying slightly as though conducting invisible 
music ; and meantime the glow in the grate burnt with 
a faint pulse which came and went in it, the log smoul¬ 
dered without blazing ; his wife asked him to “ Wait, 
dear,” while she counted stitches. Then Daniel looked 
at Simonne, and though she bent her head still lower, 
saw her smiling. If he had read a tragedy she would 
have smiled that night. The persistence of this smile 
made his heart ache rather. What a state to be in ! 
Was he wise as a vicar ? Here he frowned, and as 
though feeling a change, the girl looked up at him. 
Play her false ? He couldn’t, but he must warn her. 

“ Good-night,” she said next moment, and was gone. 
He waited until his wife was looking through some 
papers (not the Rescue Society accounts, but the 
Cooking League propaganda), then told her : 

“ I believe our little French friend wants a holiday ; 
we could spare her one day next week ? I’ll take the 
children to Lion Head.” 


TANTALUS 


45 


“ A holiday ? Oh, if she has friends to go to-” 

Mrs. Jennifer’s blue eyes had a set, distant look ; she 
was still wrestling with the cooking accounts. The 
vicar said casually : 

“ She’s going up to Town.” He let the plural ending 
pass in silence, and his wife replied : 

“ As long as she is back in good time. Perhaps I 
ought to ask Maggie ? ” 

“ No, no ; that’s settled. Did you see this about 
famine in the evening papers ? ” “ If I were to tell 

her the truth,” he thought, " she would only worry 
herself to death.” 



CHAPTER VII 


The day came. The matter had not been alluded to 
again, and Mrs. Jennifer had forgotten it. But when 
the children clapped their hands and cried: “No 
lessons ! ” she became agitated, and kept saying, “ In 
case of accidents, do we know where she’s going ? ” 

Simonne looked at the vicar. 

“ I know all about it,” he answered happily. 

“ Has she a time-table ? ” faltered his wife. 

“ Yes, here’s a little card I’ve made. I should catch 
this one if I were you ” (pointing out the fast train that 
got back at 7.18). 

“ But it’s dark then ; she’d better catch the early one. 
So many soldiers . . .” 

Simonne left the dining-room. In her hand was a 
paper with all the trains up to the last old slow one that 
got in at midnight. Two or three were underlined, and 
below them the vicar had written : “ Commit thy way 
unto the Lord.” 

She bade Mrs. Jennifer “ good-bye ” with an eager¬ 
ness that made the vicar laugh ; it was obvious that his 
wife had lots to say, but before her good mind could 
collect itself the girl had slipped through her hands and 
was gone. 

“We’ll see her off,” Daniel announced ; so with the 
children and the dog, they made for the station. 

46 


TANTALUS 


47 


The wind roared, then passed away, leaving a divine 
spring stillness when the stones seemed to laugh. 
Simonne hurried ; the children skipped and jumped. 

“ Be careful! " Daniel said; and again at the 
station, “ Now, be careful! " 

To say more was impossible in front of the children, 
but he held her hand over the carriage window, mur¬ 
muring : “Be careful! " 

For his solicitude he was rewarded, when the train 
had really started, by a radiant smile. 

“No lessons ! " the children shouted. “ Lion Head ! 
Oh, Uncle Dan, don't look so awfully serious. Be 
jolly! " 

They soon left the town behind them and stepped 
over ploughed fields, through smoke from a bonfire 
towards a holly tree that turned black as night and next 
moment gleamed white again, while the cloud shadow 
which had touched it raced to the hills. 

Now they were on grass, and, as Hilda said, “ the 
grass twinkled," not a blade was still. 

Claude got tired, and was hoisted on to his uncle's 
back. Dunstan and Hilda cried “ Shoo ! " to the larks ; 
they chased the blackbirds from bush to bush, they 
jumped for joy when a hare shot by. The vicar looked 
at the purple shadows ; from his feet they fled to that 
clean bright rim. “ Life flies like that," he thought. 
Then he glanced at his watch. “ She’ll have got to 
Clapham Junction." 

The long walk to Lion Head quieted the children; 
they were content to stand and stare. Far below they 
saw the country, a wide, honey-coloured sea stretching, 
as it seemed, to the Antipodes. There were woods 


TANTALUS 


48 

beneath them, and one by one they went down a 
shepherd’s path, the banks each side embroidered, as it 
were, with roots of trees. 

“ The tips are getting red,” Hilda noticed. But the 
vicar stared at the green boles and at the moss on their 
trunks ; he saw trees in the hollow grown tall and thin, 
one naked ash that quivered on tiptoe to reach the sky, 
and still the crest of Lion Head loomed far above it. 

The governess would have met the young man by 
now, but the fact seemed no longer amusing; it was 
an experience over his head, like that red glow on the 
tree-tops ; and every step took him farther down the 
hollow where it was darker, where nettles grew in 
summer-time, and wet logs had now a peppery smell 
like toadstools. 

They would be glancing at each other, laughing ; 
nothing to say, perhaps, but just content to explore 
each other’s spirit with a look. Then she would show 
herself (he saw that naked ash-tree quiver) ; she would 
smile at her young man, a smile as full of promise as the 
heavens! 

Little Claude fell down and began to cry. 

“ Come along,” said the vicar. 

“ It’s clouding over,” Hilda announced, and glancing 
out Daniel saw huge blue-black clouds that sent him 
hurrying to a village station. 

All the way in the train he watched those purple 
clouds climb up, advancing steadily from the flat 
country, with only one break at their heart where an 
orange storm-light shone. 

“ I hope she will have the sense to catch the five 
o’clock. I hope the child’s all right. I wonder what—” 


TANTALUS 


49 

So ran the vicar’s thoughts. As the spring day 
was threatened by storm, so youth, he felt, was 
threatened. 

The sight of Hartake Station was disagreeable, it 
looked so empty. The vicarage was empty, too ; the 
house felt cold, and there was something particularly 
depressing about his study that evening. It was a 
mental battlefield, and the corpses were so lifeless ; 
that was the centre of his mood: battles he had fought, 
with a Greek word for his battering-ram, a text for his 
army, and the spiritual world laid bare and shaped to 
it as by a clever Napoleon ; and then, next Sunday 
another text, another shaping. And how he had 
rubbed his hands sometimes when he had made one 
word mould all the world ! As a man swings his arms 
on his chest when he is cold, so he had warmed his brain 
when his soul, perhaps, was freezing. 

“ Three Persons in one God ” met his eye on a paper 
he had written yesterday. “ Now the Latin word 
Persona does not mean “ person ” in our sense, but 
character, as we still say Dramatis personce in a play; 
the word in Greek signifies the mask-” 

Kate, the housemaid, came in to say that there was 
some one to see him. It was Mrs. Verral’s nurse, who 
said that her mistress had met Mrs. Jennifer in the 
town and had arranged to send for the children, as 
Mrs. Jennifer herself was out. 

“ Will you call for them, sir, or shall I bring them 
back ? ” she asked. 

“ I’ll call,” said Daniel quickly. 

" Maids are fools,” he thought a little later, seeing 
the whole table laid for himself alone, “ They’d rather 


5o 


TANTALUS 


work than make any effort of new thought/’ And, 
while he ate, his mind ran on : “ ... this word which 
has proved a stumbling-block and a contention to the 
most orthodox in the bosom of our Church ...” 

The clock striking the half-hour recalled him. He 
took his reading lamp to the schoolroom. The black 
kitten had pulled down Simonne’s needlework, a book 
lay disclosed on her work-basket—his son’s old copy 
of “ Robinson Crusoe ” ; and at the place where Crusoe 
“ considering seriously ” his condition, drew up a case 
for himself of the “ evil ” and the “ good,” Daniel saw 
a paper written in a delicate slanting hand, and dated 
the day after Simonne’s arrival. 

Crusoe’s statement: “I am cast upon a horrible 
desolate island, void of all hope of recovery. I am 
singled out and separated, as it were, from all the 
world, to be miserable,” had its counterpart in 
French : 

“ Me voild dans une maison detestable , sans joie, sans 

liberte, sans amie -” but on the “ good ” side, written 

in pencil, the day following, perhaps : “ M. Jennifer 
est gentil. ,> 

The vicar sat for quite three minutes lost in that 
pleasant little glow. “ M. Jennifer est gentil. ,y 

Before fetching the children he went to the station, 
but the 6.15 came in without her. 

“ I didn’t expect her till eight,” he thought. 

Mrs. Jennifer returned soon after seven, full of news. 
To the vicar’s relief, she had forgotten the governess. 
He heard the eight o’clock express, and listened, after 
that, for every sound. Once his dog stirred, and a 
feeling of thankfulness welled up ; but Fan lay down 



TANTALUS 51 

again. His wife talked of all she had heard, and he 
agreed, and watched the door. 

When the clock struck nine an intolerable sense of 
responsibility made him get up and walk about. He 
mentioned Simonne's name. 

“ Oh ! but her friends have kept her for the night, 
of course/' his wife said tranquilly. “ There has been 
an awful storm in town. Mrs. Clutterbuck’s sister 
arrived while I was there, and told us how packed full 
the stations were, and how impossible it has been to get 
anywhere. Mademoiselle should have wired ; but you 
know what the Post Office is just now. You're not 
going to wait up ? " 

He stood at the window at half-past ten. 

“ You go to bed," he said at last, and sat down again 
by the fire. 

“ Fool! " he kept thinking ; “ fool to let a young 
girl go ; a foreigner who has been dull here. What did 
she say ? Maison detestable , sans joie , sans liberte. 
And then this cursed young man . . . What shall I do 
if she comes back to-morrow ? " At this point the 
vicar's handsome face looked hard and scowling. 
“ ... Comes slipping in as she slipped off! No, no, 
no ! " and he beat his foot on the carpet. 

Eleven struck. Now a cold seriousness settled on 
him above an ache which had been with him all day ; 
picturing the governess in her little dark blue hat, her 
short dark frock, with the bunch of snowdrops she had 
been wearing, he blamed himself long and bitterly. 

A mouse stole out and looked at him ; the fire turned 
to ashes ; the steady drip, drip of rain filled the room ; 
the face of Percy appeared for no reason, and stayed 


52 


TANTALUS 


with him. Becoming drowsy, he saw them both up to 
their necks in a sea of nettles in that damp, dark wood. 

A long-drawn shriek in the distance announced the 
midnight train. Daniel began to listen again. Sitting 
straight and tense, thought suspended, eyes unable to 
leave the clock. Five minutes, ten minutes, twelve 
minutes, a quarter past; his heart was sinking—Ah ! 
thank God ! One of those moments when suspended 
feeling flies in all directions like ice cracking on a pool. 
Daniel only knew that he reached the door, opened it, 
that Simonne was before him, and that he could see she 
had been crying. 

“ My dear, my dear ? ” he asked. 

“ He never came/' she answered. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Among all the contingencies which had entered the 
vicar’s mind that day he had never thought of disap¬ 
pointment, he looked so astonished, his grizzled hair 
even rising from his temples a little, that Simonne 
smiled in spite of herself. But disillusionment is taken 
hardly by some natures; the very height of her joy made 
the drop deeper, she had been through eight hours of 
waiting and watching at the station, three hours of 
reflection in the train ; and the conclusions she had 
come to were bitter. She would have passed the vicar 
and gone straight up, but Daniel begged her to wait 
while he fetched the milk and biscuits he had ready. 

He was afraid to question her, this little wounded 
bird ; he cursed the soldier now on other grounds. 

“ You’re sure it was the right date ? ” he said at last, 
feeling at once that it was a silly question, and added : 

“ Men aren’t free, you know, perhaps he had orders-” 

but from the sick expression that passed on her face he 
saw he must leave the subj ect. He was longing to know 
what she had done all day, if she had dined, where she 
had gone, and, instead of learning anything, he had to 
watch her go upstairs. 

Mrs. Jennifer woke for a few minutes when her 
husband came to bed. 

“ Mademoiselle has come back,” he told her; “I 
fancy she has had an unpleasant day, we won’t bother 
her with questions.” 


53 



54 


TANTALUS 


Indeed, it had been that turning-point when expecta¬ 
tion hardens into experience. 

“ If I had said I would meet him,” the girl told 
herself, “ no ‘ orders ’ in the world would have stopped 
me ! And if they had locked me up I would have sent 
a messenger ; I would never have let him wait as I 

waited; but men-” Here, for the first time, she 

put her sweetheart on a level with the others. 

She had arrived that day at one o’clock in a little 
flutter of joy, three months’ absence from him made 
the meeting more exciting, lent mystery to it, a pre¬ 
tence uncertainty : “ If he doesn’t come,” she had 
said to herself, and while she said it fancied every 
man was he. 

The bookstall had been a sort of doorstep to Paradise, 
knowing that the doors would open she had been well 
content to wait. Smiling at the station causeway, at 
first- and second-class waiting-rooms, at the Lost 
Property Office and the big main entrance, at the 
different platform barriers, at posters and porters ; 
gentlemen who came to buy newspapers glanced at her, 
and being so full of happiness she had smiled at them ! 

When the Folkestone train was due her hands went 
cold suddenly, a tremulous fluttering stirred her heart 
as if for all her imaginings she had not yet touched 
reality ; and that reality appeared so big that a fit of 
trembling took her. 

“ Down the left-hand side,” a porter told her. She 
saw ladies with luggage, old gentlemen, country folk 
in new, solid black, officers, officers coming quickly ; 
she looked back for fear of missing one, and only when 
the last was gone felt the first chill of disappointment. 



TANTALUS 


55 


" He will come by the next/' she said, and looked 
idly then, this suburb outskirts to the gates of Paradise 
was losing novelty, she began to see the boards were 
dusty and the posters ugly, and the people common¬ 
place ; she began to feel vexed that he had not come 
when her heart, she felt, was in her eyes ; when he came 
now she would be looking conventional, their meeting 
would be on a level with other meetings which she saw 
taking place. No! not really, only for the first few 
minutes. 

So passed an hour. She had lunch at the station 
buffet, watching carefully all the time, and amusing 
herself by pretending that he was in London really and 
had been detained, but might turn up at any moment 
irrespective of the time-table ; on this hypothesis she 
would not leave the station, but waited there, between 
each train. 

The station grew dark as a cellar when the storm blew 
up, and when the rain fell on the glass it seemed to pelt 
upon her nerves ; one clap of thunder made her heart 
sink. By five o’clock she had given him up, but waited, 
thinking : “ If he loved me-! ” 

She had sat on the shiny seat in the waiting-room with 
her elbows on her knees, and her cheeks on her close- 
clenched fists, and had stared at that bookstall as some 
fallen Eve might view the tree of knowledge ; her arms 
cold, the muscles round her waist stiff and hard. If 
a lump came in her throat she swallowed it, there 
are times too bleak for tears. Disappointment, she 
discovered, was a cold, cold burden, but wounded 
vanity—(here her eyes had stung the bookstall)— 
wounded vanity was inflammation ! The feminine ego 


TANTALUS 


56 

of Simonne Dubois ached like a tooth, the spiritual 
depth of her carried that burden of stone. 

The station lights appeared sordid, the rush of people 
to the evening trains contemptible ; she was no longer 
thinking of her friend, but of her sorrow. 

Love had not broken into blossom as life had promised, 
she felt surprised that she could not look forward, and 
then sank back into disappointment. To stay the night 
would not help matters, it would only lead to explana¬ 
tions at the vicarage ; so, with a heavy heart, she had 
caught the last train back, resenting every mile of the 
return journey, unable to resist comparing it with her 
gay start off in the morning. At a draughty stopping- 
place where they waited ten minutes she thought 
reasonably, “ A letter will come to-morrow explaining 
everything, and he will make another meeting,” but 
felt no pleasure ; after all, what did she know of him ? 
He might be immoral! Married ! He might be bad- 
tempered, or a drinker ; all she knew was that he had 
put his arm behind her shoulder and had whispered in 
her ear. 

She remembered the journey to Hartake a short time 
ago, and how the children had looked forward, her own 
anticipation and hopes of adventure ; but was it so 
different from that house in Bayswater ? Yes, there was 
Mr. Jennifer. The gentleman in the London house 
had been a nonentity, Mrs. Jennifer's sister a hard, 
righteous tyrant ! The vicarage was dull but not so 
deadly, there was a kind man with seeing eyes, good 
looking, who could smile, but he would ask her . . . 
and here the depths broke up in tears. She was alone, 
luckily, in the sour-smelling third-class carriage worn 


TANTALUS 


57 

bare by troops, a grey patch rubbed on the red along 
the level of their shoulders, and dull grey patches on 
the seats ; rain outside, striking the windows hard 
sometimes ; and at every country station stopping so 
that her feet got frozen, and her day's experience faded 
to one dull sense of calamity. 

The short walk from the station roused her to suffer 
again, and it was with an emotional face that she 
arrived at the vicarage. She saw the vicar's concern, 
but his sympathy made her tears run fast, she could 
only shake her head, and hide herself in her room. 

There she flung her trouble off with each wet garment, 
too tired to care, and lying in bed forgot it all in sleep. 
The heart that can sleep is not so unhappy ; a storm in 
March does not kill the leaves. 

Mademoiselle dreamed of kisses, and woke to disgust! 
She came down languidly to breakfast; there were 
black circles under her eyes, and her lips were pale ; 
her cheeks the same grey tint as the sky. To all Mrs. 
Jennifer's kind questions she replied in monosyllables, 
she said there was nothing the matter, but when Daniel 
proposed a “ day off " for the children she gave him a 
thankful look. Both watched and listened for the 
postman, at last his peaked cap appeared, and the vicar 
went to the window ; there were plenty of letters for 
himself and his wife, but none for Simonne Dubois. 

She watched all the posts for a week; when the hour 
grew near she would pass through the hall. Daniel 
could hear her in and out, and up and down, restless, 
waiting, hoping ; and then the postman's step sounded, 
and the bell jangled, and there was silence. If Daniel 
quietly pulled back his door he saw Simonne sitting on 


TANTALUS 


58 

the bench beneath his hats, with her hands in her lap, 
her head bent, and a look as if some great foot pressed 
upon her. 

Unable to stand it one day, he went out to her, saying: 

“ Courage, little friend ; come into my study.” 

The vicar’s study got the sunlight at five o’clock, the 
old room looked shabby in it, but calm. Simonne sat 
down near the door, Daniel stood against the window ; 
he had put on a dark green coat that day, a strange 
looking “ Alpine ” garment, one of those remnants of a 
holiday. It hung usually on a nail by the bookcase, 
but rather than sit in a room with the windows shut, 
Daniel would put on this coat and then open them wide, 
so that the full earthy smell of the wet garden came in 
with the late sunlight, and a scent of evergreens. 

The vicar looked at the governess who had entered 
simply from obedience, and began turning and twisting 
his fountain pen ; it was not easy to talk consolingly 
to a person who sat and waited, as it were, for orders. 

“ This strange silence,” he began, “ may be the best 
thing our friend has ever thought of ; who knows what 
his intentions were ? There is so much licence nowadays, 
men . . . women ... he may have thought only of 
pleasure when he wrote to you. Then, on leave, 
thankful for escape, he pictured to himself his little 
acquaintance—(I’m only supposing, mind you)—he 
remembered your candid, eager face, and felt ashamed. 
Perhaps he couldn’t meet you honourably so he wouldn’t 
come at all.” 

“ He might have written.” 

“ He wants you to forget him.” 

“ That’s not the way.” 


TANTALUS 


59 

“ Come ! the adventure might have ended differently, 
I think we should be grateful to the young man for 
repenting. Suppose he had come, and you had trusted 
him ? ” 

“ Don’t talk of men,” exclaimed the girl; “ they are 
all alike, they take without giving.” 

“Not all,” the vicar told her. 

“ He had no right to risk-” a flood of colour 

swamped her face. 

Daniel pointed to the open window. 

“ Look ! ” he said. 

The sun was level with the tops of the acacias, huge 
blocks of shadow lay alternate with long bars of gold, 
and where the light caught the drops from the last 
shower they shone yellow, and emerald, and palest 
silver. A blackbird flew up to the boughs of the lilac, 
and Simonne saw small, honey-coloured buds already. 

“ A frost may come to-night,” said Daniel, “ but it 
doesn’t mean that spring is over ! ” 

Simonne got up and went slowly to the window, her 
face was set, her hair had slipped down on her neck, but 
standing there the sunlight shone on her, she could smell 
wet grass and wallflowers, and for the first time it 
seemed possible to hope again : “ not for him,” she 
said to herself, he lay behind her now as last year lay 
behind the garden ; but for what he had promised with 
his smile. 

The vicar was struck by her silence. Sometimes, 
when we stand by a young tree we feel what a miracle 
it is, so still and strong, and yet so dainty ; we feel if we 
watch we shall see it growing. 

The tea bell rang. Simonne turned round and with- 


6o TANTALUS 

out a word, took his hand in both of hers, pressed it, and 
ran away. 

Daniel was touched by her action, he hurried out, 
wanting to do or say something more, to prolong a 
feeling of warmth at his heart; he felt good and simple, 
as one does after being kind. 

“ How much we miss ! ” he told himself, and met his 
wife coming in from the garden. She had been digging 
vegetables, and had on her “ working ” clothes, a dirty 
old green velvet cap, a thick, very full brown skirt 
(made in the days when skirts were pleated on the hips, 
it had three rows of velvet round the bottom) ; a rough 
woollen jersey the colour of rusty iron, and a splendid 
pair of boots ; her eyes had a happy, tranquil look, and 
her hands were caked with mud. 

“ Don’t wait for me,” she called to him, “ the 
slugs . . .” her words were drowned in a sound of 
splashing. She never went upstairs to wash, but used 
a small, damp lavatory where, without looking in the 
cracked glass, she passed her hands upwards over her 
hair, satisfied if it felt smooth again. 

“ Things are growing,” she told them in the dining¬ 
room, “ it’s marvellous ! The last hour almost, there’s 
a difference since I’ve been out there.” And while she 
talked she handled tea-cups swiftly as if they were 
railway tickets, and scraped at the margarine as if she 
was mixing cattle fodder. 

Simonne was a little shy after that impulsive moment. 
When she spoke it was in French, to the children. But 
Daniel had that nice intimate feeling which finds in 
every word a text for a conversation. 

His dark brown eyes roved round for something new. 


TANTALUS 


61 


his wife’s nails were dull, he noticed ; Simonne’s were 
shining. “ Good Tilly, good woman,” he thought, 
and below that : “ She’ll pick up now,” meaning 
Mademoiselle; it pleased him to see her take two 
helpings of home-made gooseberry jam. 

Simonne went out that night, she felt she wanted to 
walk ; she had been heavy, like somebody old and bent, 
everything tried her, but since tea-time she wanted to 
hurry. At one moment she was angry that any one 
had known her disillusionment; antagonism against 
men hurt like a thorn that she pressed in wilfully, saying 
to herself : “He laughs, perhaps ! ” and the soldier’s 
and the vicar’s faces both appeared. Then thinking of 
Daniel’s kindness that afternoon, and how she had sat 
like a stone in his study, she felt ashamed of herself. 
“ Oh ! this emotion of love is a child’s illness,” she 
declared, and her shadow lengthened ahead of her, 
abnormally tall, thin, sharp until it fainted in the light 
of the coming street lamp. The next few yards were 
swift and clear, her shadow was flung behind her now, 
the dingy street lamp shone above ; she could have 
cried with exasperation. A hundred thousand buried 
feelings swarmed like ants from a broken heap ; little 
tendernesses that bit her now. A hot, twisted feeling 
pinched and pulled at her. But what had M’sieu 
said ? “A storm in March doesn’t kill the leaves . . . 

A frost may come-” It was the frost that held 

her now, the frost of heart-hunger. 

“ I will never love again,” she thought, and the road 
ended abruptly on a rim of pitch-black grass. Checked 
on this edge with no horizon it was as though she had 



62 


TANTALUS 


stepped bodily into some sea, very soft and cold and 
magical. Small and far off shone the stars ; earth and 
sky were silent. 

In this silence tumbled feelings separated like tangled 
weeds set floating in the deep, they were no longer 
mixed, but from amongst them all a great stone, so it 
seemed, broke off and sank. “ I have climbed above 
love ! ” flashed through her mind. And all at once the 
old grey vicarage appeared as a home, there was some 
one who knew, who would be glad, she hurried back to 
show him. 

Mr. and Mrs. Jennifer were in the drawing-room 
when she came in. 

“ I thought you’d gone to bed ? ” the latter said to 
her. 

“ I have been for a long walk.” 

“ What! alone ? ” cried Mrs. Jennifer. 

But Simonne looked at the vicar ; he was reading, 
and did not notice her. " These English ! ” she thought 
with sudden anger ; “do they know life ? They know 
nothing ! I hate them ! ” and biting her lip she went 
to bed. 


CHAPTER IX 


There came one of those perfectly mild spring days 
when houses seem an impertinence, when man, having 
lived indoors throughout the winter feels his comfort 
stand between him and the sky so that he longs to run 
naked, to have wet grass on his face, to rub himself like 
an old horse against a tree. The vicar felt this simply 
in a consciousness that his coat looked shabby ; he had 
nothing half so vivid to show the sun as that girl’s face 
at breakfast. A queer thought came that he would 
like to pick and wear her for a buttonhole ! 

“ She’s like those red anemones I saw in Switzerland,” 
he mused, “ full of colour and life ; she’s less despon¬ 
dent, but there’s something new. Dear girl!—she 
throws her chin up as if she wanted to encounter. 
What did she say to me ? * He had no right—Men are 
all alike,’ she said, ‘ they take without giving ! ’ * Not 
all,’ I told her. ‘ They have no right to risk . . .’ 
and how she blushed ! If she had really ‘ loved ’ she 
couldn’t have spoken ; she knows that I know that; 
now what . . . Come, where’s my letter to the rural 
dean ? ” 

But instead of going to his study he sat down on a 
green wooden seat against a high, clipped yew hedge 
which divided the lawn from the kitchen garden. 

A sense of healing in the absence of all human voices 
blessed him. There was no breath of wind, clouds and 

63 


TANTALUS 


64 

mist had vanished, but the grass was wet, and its liquid 
green increased the vicar's pleasure in the sun. He 
watched a golden cobweb floating, heard the first gnat 
humming, smelt the turpentine exuding from the trees. 

“ We talk too much," he thought. “ Why can't we 
meet our God in peace ? God . . . little Hilda asked 
me why God let the war go on. For our good, I told 
her, to bring us back ; and interest vanished out of the 
child's face, there was nothing more to be said about 
God between us. Should I have explained that in my 
inmost thoughts ‘ God ’ and ‘War’ have no connection ? 
That our verbal prayers ... No, no, what am I 
thinking ? " 

Daniel let his head sink back into the bushes ; a 
pleasant feeling came ; he watched a dewdrop changing 
colour and was glad to be drugged by the trees. One 
felt old as the hills on a day like this ; nothing mattered; 
the theological point of view was just as lifeless as his 
house-front; and smiling, staring at it, he fell asleep. 

He was awakened five minutes later by a sound of 
breathing, but there was only the stiff-clipped yew. 
Had he dreamed it ? Next moment a sigh came and 
burst uncannily close to his heart; it was like being 
alone with a spirit. 

At the end of the lawn an archway led to the kitchen 
garden. Daniel went through it on to a narrow path 
between old-fashioned beds of daffodils in bud, small 
blue squills and polyanthus. Beyond lay a thicket of 
gooseberry bushes, and level with the seat he had left, 
on an old rotten bench sat the governess. Although 
she held her handkerchief on her knee, she did not strike 
the vicar as looking sad. A birch tree covered with 


TANTALUS 


65 

bright drops, swaying in a sudden gale, isn’t sad. It is 
true that its roots are pulled ; but what discovery of 
movement! 

“ I was asleep on the other side and heard somebody,” 
he explained. 

She had hidden the handkerchief. Daniel sat down 
pretending to see nothing amiss, but a sense of 
life being warmer than he had thought crept over 
him. 

“ These spring moments ; that’s right, enjoy the 
moment,” he told her. 

“ But the moment hasn’t all I want,” Simonne was 
saying as if to herself. “ All I want I shall never have. 
Every morning when I wake up I want more, every day 
I grow older I want more, every time I sit alone . . .” 

The vicar stroked her hand. 

“ You’ve got a new book ; what’s it this time ? ” 
He picked up a little red-bound Grant Richard’s edition 
of “ Wuthering Heights,” marked at page 80 by a sprig 
of yew, and something of the girl’s mood grew clear to 
him, reading those wonderful lines in which Catherine 
gave her reason for loving Heathcliff: “ Because he is 
more myself than I am.” Simonne, he realised, was 
not grieving for the past adventure, but because she 
had no fellow-being to sink herself in now. 

“ And before I knew her,” he thought, “ when I used 
to see her at table, she reminded me of a little bird, this 
strenuous young thing ! ” Aloud he said : 

“ Spring pushes us all alike, my dear.” 

“ But I want to be free-” 

The vicar covered her hand with his. “ That’s 
right,” he told her, “ that’s the way.” 



66 


TANTALUS 


“Ah!” she exclaimed vehemently, “you should 
say it is shameful to want ! ” She was shaking beside 
him, staring with a twisted, painful face at a gooseberry 
bush. “ This is just the moment,” thought Daniel, 
“ when anything may happen. What shall I say ? ” 

“ Nothing is wasted ; we learn to love God through 
our human, human-” 

“ God is life ! ” exclaimed the governess. “ I hate 
life ! ” 

“You mean you love it so that you worship it. Not 
a bad thing, my dear ; but remember there’s a higher, 
spiritual-” 

“ My mother was Swiss,” Simonne broke in abruptly. 
“ Pleasure my father must have, they used to tell me, 
but my mother the truth.” 

“ And I’m telling you the truth,” said Daniel. 

“ Of a God in your heaven ? ” 

“ It’s high time you were back near a church of your 
own ! ” 

“ I don’t believe in my Church. Mon Dien! I never 
want to pray, I want to live.” 

“ Ah ! you wait-” 

“ M’sieu would have me in trouble then ? ” 

The lunch bell rang. Hilda came running to them. 

“ How funny,” she cried, “ to sit on this old bench 
when there’s a nice dry one near the house ! What made 
you come here ? What’s uncle smiling for ? Uncle Dan, 
you’ve got a joke. What is it ? Does Ma’mselle 
know ? Do you, Ma’mselle ? ” 

Simonne took her pupil’s hand. 

“ Let’s run,” she said, and turning her back on the 
vicar, ran along the narrow path, her blue skirt whisking 





TANTALUS 67 

against the daffodils, and Hilda’s red one flicking the 
dark green yew. 

In fancy Daniel ran after them, and he felt both 
discontented and surprised to discover himself still 
sitting there. 

There are people with spirits like elastic, emotional 
strain pulls them tight, reaction crumples them again ; 
not limply, like string, but with a quality of recovery. 
It was so with Simonne Dubois. In the dining-room 
each morning she met the vicar’s eye ; that velvet eye 
said : “ Come, we’re better ! ” It conveyed knowledge 
of her mood and she felt less lonely. There was some¬ 
one who sympathised, and she felt grateful. Gratitude 
is a great medicine ; gratitude, she felt, was like a 
hidden flower, it sweetened the day for you, and its 
choice moment some little action of affection, a bowl 
of flowers set secretly upon his writing table. Simonne 
became happy. This new experience of gratitude was 
already pulling her elastic spirit; her eyes were bright 
when she looked at herself in Margaret’s glass ; the 
strong air at Hartake had burnt her cheeks. She tied 
her ribbons with pleasure and hummed while she 
brushed her hair. She was glad to look pretty. 

The vicar, at this time, became a greater favourite 
than ever with the children, joining their walks and 
discovering delightful nooks with them. One day it 
was a hollow under the hills full of bushes and dwarf 
oaks ; sitting on a fallen tree he could see the yellow 
catkins. It was pleasant to sit there in the sunshine 
under one of those blue, thirsty skies, half covered by 
flying clouds. 


68 


TANTALUS 


“ M’sieu loves Nature ? ” Simonne asked him. In 
his own circle his wife was considered the Nature-lover 
because she was “ so fond of gardening ” ; his people 
never saw him at the study window breathing in a scent 
of pine and cedar, watching a bird with a sense of 
healing as if invisible ointment touched an invisible 
wound ; trees and birds could not be saved, he need 
not “ talk ” to them. 

“ Come and sit by me,” he invited the governess, and 
when she sat beside him he enjoyed the blue sky all the 
more. She was, he told himself, a little bit of that true, 
virile life he had always loved in Nature ; it was 
natural to stroke her hand as it was natural to tap upon 
a tree. He fixed his eyes upon a celandine and felt 
new joy in little things. But Mademoiselle sat by him 
touched to the heart by every movement of his fingers. 

Another day they walked to Burstock Heights. 

“ This soft grey afternoon is like a dream/' he told 
her. 

“ And m’sieu is content to stop in it ? Now if I were 
a man with M’sieu’s powers-” 

“ You’d set the house afire ! ” 

“I’d rather burn than waste.” 

“ Be wasted,” he corrected her. 

“ But M’sieu is not a meenister ! ” Daniel understood 
that she was defending what people called his “ dear 
boyish spirit,” something which sought utterance in 
sudden activities, great merriment at the parish school- 
treat, irritation at a vestry meeting. 

A gentleman in tweeds passed them, wheeling a 
bicycle. Daniel remarked : “I suppose that type of 
fellow with the red face and round eye amuses you ? ” 



TANTALUS 


69 

“ Oh, no ! ” exclaimed Simonne. “ You country 
English are not stupid so much as deceivers ; you all 
have more imagination than you get credit for; but 
you cover it. Why ? Not from fear, no, but because 
you have a courage— un drole de courage —that will bear 
much rather than admit vision. Again why ? Because 
to admit what you see would then compel you—yes, 
compel you to change or express it. Look,” continued 
the governess, “ at your poor Mr. Bridgestock at 
Hartake ; there’s a ‘ jolly ’ Englishman who won’t see 
that his wife is ill because so long as he can whistle and 
tell her she looks ‘ splendid ’ nothing happens, they go 
on as usual. So he conceals all his sad knowledge that 
he may—how d’you call it ?—‘ keep her going.’ That’s 
his inner, scarce perceptible idea. He hopes to bear her 
upon his courage, so he whistles, while all the time they 
both deceive each other. I think in England clergymen 
and congregations live a little like that.” 

“ Come, come ! is your own system so impeccable ? ” 

“ I don’t believe in my Church.” 

“ Then you ought to join mine.” 

“ Is Monsieur so satisfied ? ” 

" Eh ? ” 

They had reached the crest of the hill and stood 
facing each other. Daniel saw the girl flushed with that 
keen stinging heat which comes when we speak of 
things close to the heart. His face burned, too ; he 
had been pursuing one of their gay talks and all at once 
he had himself come under analysis ; the verdict jerked 
his self-esteem. He began speaking of birds and 
flowers kindly, but as to some one much younger, and 
Simonne didn’t look at the birds, nor did she listen to 


TANTALUS 


70 

him. “ I remember how I loved this—and that/' he 
was saying—“ precious days, all Nature to hand, all 
experiment possible-” 

‘‘Are the days of experiment, then, past?” she 
asked him, and he walked faster. She hurried, too, 
biting her lip, vexed. In her room again she felt angry, 
then ran straight down to the study. 

“ M’sieu ! ” she exclaimed, “ I was trop violent !— 
rude, impolite. I am sorry-” 

“ There, little one, never mind. We of the Church,” 
he told her, “ wage an eternal tournament, and some¬ 
times we get tired.” 

But the vicar’s face was less complacent than his 
tone ; he did, indeed, look tired. Meeting his eyes, an 
impatience with “ stupid suffering ” made her gaze at 
him too fervently. 

“ I was silly to apologise,” she thought, and returned 
to Margaret’s room with a restless, empty feeling. 
Sitting on the narrow white bed, fact after fact rose up 
before her, becoming at once a discovery. There is 
nothing in life so cold and comfortless as discovery, 
sometimes. Simonne, with her red lips pressed tightly 
together, and a sense of tightness in her ribs, understood 
why she had sung and been so gay lately, rousing the 
children to such merriment; it had been an unconscious 
effort to make sunshine for Mr. Jennifer. Past hours 
spent brushing her hair, looking out of the window, 
smoothing a blouse, came up in mental procession, 
accompanied each by a hiatus, a pleasant glow, 
thoughts in fact, of Mr. Jennifer ! 

Simonne Dubois was born with an instinct to embrace 
life wherever she found it; no mere clinging, but the 




TANTALUS 


7 i 


embrace of eternal warm-heartedness. She had 
embraced that slow, grave atmosphere of the convent 
in Brittany, and having squeezed it to death, had seized 
upon Nature, colours of summer flowers, sensations 
produced by colours, until flowers, too, being squeezed, 
she had discovered intellectual longing ; this had lasted 
until she returned to Paris. There she had begun with 
a shy interest in her new step-mother, a yellow-faced, 
black-eyed woman with dark hair, a lazy nature, and 
a heart and tongue capable of violence on occasions. 
The young girl instinctively seized upon mystery in this 
deathly slow woman with the brilliant eyes. “ I have 
suffered/' was the burden of her step-mother's confes¬ 
sion ; “I have lived," said her hard lips. 

Simonne, nineteen years old, full of ardent desire to 
bestow affection, discovered one day that her step¬ 
mother had many lovers, and the sleepy, sensuous air of 
her home appeared disgusting, instead of mysterious. 
She did not feel anger on her father's account; he was 
a sharp, brilliant little man who had long ago become 
a cynic, incapable of love. But she began to hate her 
step-mother's damp, black head, her dingy flowered 
peignoir, the soft sound of her slippers ; every woman 
of like complexion encountered along the boulevards 
became a shadow of her step-mother. She caught 
herself thinking, “ I dare say father isn't even married 
to her ! " and having ratified this discovery, she left 
home. Six months passed happily and peacefully with 
a schoolfellow in Brittany, walking among the little 
silver-grey bushes between tall hedges of rose-red 
camellia blossoms—when the petals fell in April the 
path was like a flaming sunset! “I must go out and 


72 


TANTALUS 


make money/’ Simonne told her friends ; to herself she 
admitted fresh desire for adventure. Three years later, 
in Margaret’s little bedroom, she was discovering that 
adventure had become fixed, its centrepiece being 
" Mr. Jennifer.” She was not so foolish as to say the 
word “ love,” it was just one of those big, painful 
affections that fill a dull life ; pleasant until doubt of 
any sort enters in, then poignant for ever after. 


CHAPTER X 


One evening, a fortnight later, supper at the vicarage 
was laid for two. A dish of cold herrings in vinegar, 
a plate of grey war bread, and a blue looking milk 
pudding. Mrs. Jennifer sat down to it smiling ; she 
had almost a “ fey " look that spring night; her eyes 
shone eagerly, not anxiously ; she seemed relieved, and 
she talked fast as children talk when they come back 
from school. 

But at her right hand the governess sat silent. 

“ Mademoiselle, take care ! You have swallowed a 
bone ? Let me give you a little more vinegar ? " Then 
words ran on, fine, faithful words all about Daniel 
Jennifer. “You know it has always been the same, 
if nobody else can manage a job they send for my 
husband, he's so—so-" 

“ Magnetic." 

“ Oh no ! " Mrs. Jennifer was shocked. “ He's so 
trustworthy." 

“ He is vital." 

“ He believes,” answered Mrs. Jennifer. “ I think 
everybody who meets my husband feels that sooner or 
later. Look at what he gets through every day, and 
how he is always managing things. The people really 
appreciate him ; they come to him, and for such 
trifles ! You've never heard him in the pulpit; it's a 
pity, mademoiselle." Mrs. Jennifer leaned across her 
73 



74 


TANTALUS 


plate, glowing; her own heart felt so sure ; it always 
did when he was out and she was free to talk about him. 

But presently a day’s digging overcame pleasure. 
It was not undutiful to doze a little in the drawing-room; 
opposite his empty chair she fell asleep, smiling. 

Outdoors the wind banged round the trees, a spring 
gale making the aspens shriek. The gas was bad that 
night; Simonne left off sewing. What a grey, ugly 
room this drawing-room was ! Mrs. Jennifer asleep 
looked idiotic ; the fire was sinking ; there was nothing 
of interest. Simonne began to think of the daily walk ; 
last week they had come to a little wood, a hollow under 
the hills full of dwarf oak and fluffy “ palm.” “ I am 
responsible,” he had been saying. “ But most respon¬ 
sible,” she had caught him up. “ To teach is sacred.” 

“ Would you like to teach all these good people ? ” 
When he bent his head like that and the children ran 
about, it was so intimate. 

“ Ah ! M’sieu has the impersonal eye ! ” she had 
answered. But he had spoilt the compliment by trying 
to prolong it. 

“ And what do you mean by that, exactly ? ” They 
had strolled into the heart of the copse, and the gale 
they had walked in passed them by. 

“You are not become as so many,” she had said. 
“ At my first situation there was a clergyman, but he 
was dead, Monsieur.” 

Daniel had smiled indulgently, as fathers smile at 
favourite children. Sitting on a log, he had said easily : 

“ I certainly feel alive ! ” And at that moment had 
come a great desire to push him over. 

“ If I were vicar of Hartake-” she had said sharply. 


TANTALUS 


75 


“ Is that how you teach Hilda ? ” 

“ But Hilda is little.” 

“ And my people are little.” 

There were primroses among damp green moss in 
that wood. The desire to push the vicar left her. 
“ Ah ! ” she had said quickly, “ I talk very much.” 

“ And I sit on a log ! ” he had answered. 

Now, in the grey drawing-room she remembered that 
she had felt disturbed. M’sieu had looked sadly at 
her, she felt that she had really “ pushed ” him in the 
wood. 

“ It is only that I fight against the feeling of little 
towns,” she had told him ; “ it is only that you, 

m’sieu, I feel have not enough place. I wish for things 
bigger, more large, more free ! ” 

“ D’you think I don’t want that large—large-” 

he had said. She had not quite followed his speech, 
but a sense of warmth had come over her spirit; he was 
telling her intimate things. 

Simonne sat brooding. Mrs. Jennifer woke, looked 
at the marble clock (a presentation from a former 
parish) ; the time was a quarter to nine. She placed 
a damp log low on the coals ; a wisp of smoke rose up, 
the fire died. “ So busy ! ” she murmured, and was 
asleep again. 

“ Empty ! ” thought Simonne ; wherever she went 
to-night the rooms would be empty. She looked at 
Mrs. Jennifer again and realised that never before had 
she seen the vicar’s wife doing nothing. “ She’s like a 
clock which has ceased to tick,” thought Simonne ; 
“ while I am one of those noisy clocks ” ; and it was as 
if her heart actually began to tick fast and noisily 



TANTALUS 


76 

against the silence. One little bough kept beating the 
window, and Mrs. Jennifer snored. “ I am continually 

angry lately,” Simonne thought/' when he is there-”; 

she frowned. Quite clearly she saw that she wanted 

to push him. “ I would force-” she said to herself; 

“ but what ? ” 

“ Oh, the stupidity ! that man who came to-day ! 
that scarlet man like a fire-escape, with his little fighting 
eye ; and the more he sees, the more his large red lip 
turns down, and the more he stares ! ” 

She was thinking of Richard Blount, an old friend of 
Daniel’s who had cycled over; she had been on the 
staircase when the two men met in the porch, and their 
conversation still rang in her head. 

“ My dear Blount! What a day ! Cycled ? My word ! 
nothing too much for you. Why didn’t you come to 
lunch ? How’s Mrs. Blount ? ” 

“ How’s Mrs. Jennifer ? ” 

“ Sad news to-day.” 

“ Shocking ! ” 

Both men had bent their heads, but they could not 
leave this subject as they left the health of their respec¬ 
tive wives. The vicar had said in a low voice : 

“ Terrible about that young fellow ! Suicide ; did 
you see ? Shell-shock.” 

“No religion.” 

“ From all accounts they’ve more out there than we 
have! ” 

“ Explode a cartload of bombs in any parish, and 
you’d see—you’d see ! ” 

“ Thank God I’ve no need for ‘ bomb-religion ’ at 
Hartake.” 



TANTALUS 


77 

At tea they had spoken of war, but guardedly, not 
at all like those laymen who explain theories of march 
and counter-march to each other with spoons and jam 
dishes to represent the armies, but bowing their heads 
as to an inevitable evil, whispering the words “ sad,” 
" shocking,” and continuing to sit there sad and 
shocked round a grey-blue bowl of violets. 

Mrs. Jennifer's earnest, almost passionate assertion, 
“ Oh ! but we must win ! ” had drawn from each man 
his own “ Amen.” 

“ We are in God’s hands.” 

“ I will smite ... I will smite . . .” 

Then for a few minutes they had talked im¬ 
personally about the conscience correspondence in The 
Times. 

“ Now what have you come for ? ” Daniel had asked 
his friend. Blount’s smile came suddenly as sunrise, 
a Satanic compound of blood, flames, tortured tissues, 
malice and good-humour. 

“ To get you to come an’ preach for me.” 

^ If I come I shall say what I think.” 

“ You’ll make ’em believe what you say ! ” 

This detestable Blount had smiled in her face, and 
Daniel had smiled, but unpleasantly. 

“ What’s the congregation ? ” Mrs. Jennifer had 
asked. 

" My wife, the schoolmaster’s wife, and my maids.” 
Blount’s smile had appeared and disappeared, and the 
Vicar of Hartake had stroked his chin ; Mrs. Jennifer 
had gaped like a child about to cry; it had been a 
naked, indelicate moment. 

" I’ll come, I’ll come,” Daniel had said abruptly. 


78 


TANTALUS 


The curate had been sent for, and at six o’clock the 
two friends had ridden off together, Mrs. Jennifer 
shouting after the vicar : 

“ Don’t forget, dear, Mrs. Wurrell’s tea-party on 
Thursday-” 

The drawing-room clock struck nine. Mrs. Jennifer 
woke up again. She began to chat, yawning at every 
word ; and Simonne felt more lonely than she had done 
since leaving Bayswater. It was a relief to end the 
evening soon, to go to bed ; but in Margaret’s room 
she undressed listlessly. Lying in the dark, there came 
a feeling of oppression. She turned her pillow then, 
and, without reason it seemed, a complete picture came 
into her mind of a trivial episode, some weeks ago, when 
she had sat on the old bench and an intense, fiery 
longing to strip off the superficial had beset her ; she 
had ached with it, it had been a longing to fly up and 
out, a reaction against that sentimentalism by the 
Serpentine. And suddenly ‘‘ Monsieur ” had come and 
sat by her, but so kindly. She had been reading 
“ Wuthering Heights.” 



CHAPTER XI 


Among the people who had lived at Hartake for more 
years than they could count, was Mrs. Wurrell (a 
merchant’s widow and sole legatee). She had a nice, 
snug, old, creeper-covered house which had been built 
in by newer streets, so that it formed a green oasis in 
the town. She lived with five unmarried daughters, 
good women with prominent front teeth, two of whom 
were away nursing, and the remaining three were “ at 
it from morning till night ” ; they ran the “ What-not ” 
social club for soldiers. 

That week Mrs. Wurrell gave a tea-party ; a real 
tea-party, not just a few friends, but as many people as 
the room would hold, and the tea-table in a new place 
by the piano, and Emmie, the eldest “ Wurrell girl,” 
standing for an hour by the teapot while people collided 
all round her. 

Mrs. Wurrell’s husband had been a collector, the 
drawing-room was his museum ; each thing collected 
stood in its place there for ever and ever : necklaces, 
foreign beans and beetles, carved knives, horn cups, 
natural coral, inlaid cabinets, filagree, carved sandal¬ 
wood, and Spanish wine-glasses—all shone from 
scrupulous dusting ; and the eyes of the company 
shone that day ; there was “ something ” in the air. 

Daniel passed about from lady to lady with a light 
step. He was a favourite with Mrs. Wurrell (she loved 

79 


8 o 


TANTALUS 


to have him close beside her while she showed him some 
old locket, her “ dear mother’s plaited hair ”), but 
to-day she was not the centre of attention ; her grey, 
wrinkled face stretched forward in a toothless smile, 
sensing a new excitement and trying like an old dog to 
keep the trail. Miss Bostock’s laughter had a delicious 
ring that day; her little eyes were gleaming. The 
Misses Clutterbuck were bursting with joy of life ; only 
Mrs. Jennifer looked anxious. 

They were all talking about the “ new man ” and 
" the dreadful things ” he did. 

“ Have another sandwich, Mr. Jennifer,” Kate, the 
second Miss Wurrell, begged. “ Home-grown mustard- 
and-cress. Do you think it’s true he-” 

“ Our good Miss Bostock says so ! ” 

“You don’t approve of that ? ” 

“ Dangerous . . . dangerous ...” 

“ Dangerous ! ” 

That was the word they had hunted for—“ danger¬ 
ous ! ” How delightful a word can make a tea- 
party. 

This “ danger ” gave them all a thrill of life, made 
them feel themselves “ good Christians,” much too 
good to fear the new man’s influence, yet alive to it as 
affecting “ other people.” 

“ Very sad, very bad,” they were saying, while their 
eyes said : “ What’s the latest ? ” 

Mrs. Verral’s maid went to church there, and had 
come home one day quite “ shocked ” : “ ’E dresses up 
like for a Sunday fancy dress in the middle of the 
service,” she had reported. 

“ I know, I know! ” 



TANTALUS 81 

“ He crosses himself ! ” cried Miss Gale, and then 
the word “ incense ” was whispered about. 

“ Wrong road,” said Daniel. “ It’s the sort of thing 
that discredits the Church,” he told the Miss Wurrell 
of the teapot. She, poor woman, was getting tired. 

“ Yes ? ” she said vaguely. " A little more hot 
water, Susan.” 

“ What are we going to do ? ” It was pretty 
Mrs. Verral, with her laughing eyes and rich dark 
furs. 

“ Do ? ” asked Daniel. He felt like a naughty 
schoolboy at a midnight feast. This gossip was illicit; 
this fostering of a delightful sense of goodness at another 
man's expense. But he couldn't help it; the tide was 
set that way. 

And because he knew he would feel sorry when he 
left he stayed a long time. 

The last nine or ten people, all particular personal 
friends of the house, drew together when the others 
had gone. 

“ I call it shameful,” the old lady kept saying. 

“ Some of the golfing Londonites go to church there 
now.” 

“ Sentimentality ! ” murmured Daniel; “ emotion¬ 
alism, Rome-” 

Each lady looked at him. 

“ Rome ? ” said Mrs. Wurrell. She looked like a 
very old wolf about to howl at the moon. 

“ Yes,” continued the vicar. “ We must look to it, 
must gird our armour on. Dangerous state ! ” 

Each lady set her shoulders as if she, and she alone, 
would save the Church. In her heart of hearts she 


82 


TANTALUS 


doubted any danger, but if danger is so nice—why, let’s 
have a little danger, do ! 

“ Daniel, it’s dreadful! Do you think he really uses 
incense ? ” asked the vicar’s wife on their way home ; 
and to her bewilderment the vicar answered : 

“ Bosh ! ” 

“ But you said to Mrs. Wurrell-? ” 

“ There’s a thrush. Listen ! ” 

“ How can you ? ” 

“ My dear ! ” 

“ Oh ! I don’t mean to say you don’t feel it, but 
what are you going to do ? ” 

It was easier, simpler, to drop into the role of vicar 
again. 

“We must pray,’’ he answered. 

Now there was nothing Mrs. Jennifer loved so much 
in the world as to feel herself a “ helpmate ’’ to “a 
Christian leader.’’ When she could get her husband 
in that mood, she felt such sacred love for him, such 
faith, such simple yearning, the spirit of her face 
became eighteen again. “ We’ll pray together,’’ she 
would whisper, and give him no peace until he did 
indeed kneel down and pray with her. 

Daniel felt it coming in the squeeze of her hand, and 
he muttered : 

“ No, no ! it’s work that’s wanted.’’ 

“No work is blessed,’’ she told him softly, “ without 
prayer.’’ 

“ Tilly’s too good for me,” he told himself at these 
times. “ She’s like the early Christians before Saint 
Paul got hold of them—one of the little Galilean set.” 
And with relief he heard his dog. 


TANTALUS 


83 

“ Good Fan ! Down ! Down !—you sly old girl! ” 

While taking his hat off he heard some one playing 
Tschaikowsky’s “ Chanson Triste,” and instead of 
going to the study he went to the drawing-room. There 
she was, that little French thing ; and no lamp lit, only 
the light of the sunset shining straight in on her when 
he opened the door; her head on one side, bent over 
the notes, her slim body in a short black frock with a 
long green scarf. She looked sad. No wonder ! alone 
like that. 

“ Bravo ! ” said Daniel softly. 

He saw a smile touch her lips ; she went on playing. 
But the piano had been a wedding present, it was an 
old “ William Squire, iron frame, full trichord/' with 
an inlaid convolvulus in yellow scrolls upon the front 
panel; some of the notes were dumb, others rattled, 
one made fearful noises. Simonne had only tried it out 
of sheer boredom, having become sick of the school¬ 
room, and being in a mood that must have music, or 
poetry, or a full moon for its outlet. 

“ I'll let him know," she thought, and began playing 
Ravel. She had to make the music by sheer spiritual 
fervour, moving and holding the old piano, flying over 
the terrible notes before they could squeak, caressing 
and soothing the rattling ones, forcing a strange 
thunder from the dumb. 

The very heat of the struggle charged the atmo¬ 
sphere, and Daniel felt himself come and go, come and 
go; lost, taken up to heights immeasurable, then 
dropped, deliciously. His face was as rosy as hers 
when she had finished. 

‘ 4 j—j-' he began. Mrs. Jennif er came running in s 


TANTALUS 


84 

“ Why, I thought there was somebody here ! ” 

“ There is,” said Daniel. 

“ Thank you,” said Simonne’s eyes. 

Mrs. Jennifer felt rather startled, and for the first 
time it struck her that the girl was a Roman Catholic. 

That night she said to the vicar : 

“ Daniel, dear ! ” 

His heart sank ; he had been humming all sorts of 
little tunes and had forgotten “ danger ” ; his wife 
looked so comic in her dear, good anxiety, with her 
hair plaited tight and her old-fashioned nightgown tied 
up to her throat. “ Good people can be very trying,” 
he thought, and felt at the same time contempt and 
irritation. Lately his wife’s goodness had shamed him ; 
it was so entirely devoid of speculation, he couldn’t— 
(here he puckered his brows)—couldn’t rise or couldn’t 
sink to it, which ? She was waiting for him now to 
kneel opposite, and he had not the faintest wish to 
pray. If he said “no,” she would be troubled all 
night, and if he did it ... it was easier to do it, it 
saved all explanations ; but his irritation grew. 

“ O God,” he prayed, “ strengthen us-” 

“ Against heresy and schism,” came his wife’s whisper. 

He caught at the words : “ Against all pride, vain¬ 
glory and hypocrisy ; against envy, hatred and malice, 
and all uncharitableness . . .” (he must work himself 
up. Oh, if the world knew all the effort in a clergy¬ 
man’s life !). “ Help us to fight like Christians, to 

resist false doctrine in our parish, and perversion of 
Thy sacred laws. Help me to cleanse and purge my 
Church so that at Thy second coming we be found 
worthy, our lamps burning, our eyes watching ...” 



TANTALUS 


85 


When they were in bed his wife said : 

“ Do you think it’s safe, Daniel, a Catholic-” 

“ But Percy-” 

“ I mean Mademoiselle.” 

The vicar jumped so that the springs under him 
squeaked. 

“ My dear Matilda ! ” 

When he spoke in that exasperated tone there was 
no more to be said, but his wife went on : 

“ I think I shall write to Maggie.” 

“ You’ll do nothing of the sort.” 

“ Why ? ” (with sudden hope). ‘'Do you mean to 
convert her ? ” 

The idea of Mademoiselle being a Romish “ danger ” 
tickled that rather impersonal part of the vicar; he 
began to laugh and couldn’t stop at once ; but his wife 
lay grieving. So often when you have looked forward 
to a moment it gets spoiled like that; she had particu¬ 
larly wanted to feel close to him to-night. At Mrs. 
Wurrell’s all their friends had seemed so close, and it 
was springtime, and if there really was a “ danger,” a 
great “ parochial danger,” she had so hoped that 
they might face it hand in hand; yet he was 
laughing. 

The thought so worked in her that she sat up. 

“ God hears you,” she told him, and a great longing 
to “ leap right out of it ” came over Daniel. “ But 
what’s the good ? ” he thought; and touching her 
fingers with a sorry, soothing touch, he lay a long time, 
long after she had left off talking, thinking with bitter¬ 
ness : . . Make fools of the cloth in the Press, tame 

dogs of us in drawing-rooms ; laugh at us for preaching, 




86 


TANTALUS 


laugh at us for praying, laugh at us for living * easily.' 
Easy ! My God ! No, no, it isn't easy . . . ! " 

By moonlight he could faintly see a bowl of prim¬ 
roses. Something in their purity fermented his feeling ; 
they were so simple. Why couldn't religion be like 
that ? 

His head ached ; he turned his pillow and began to 
think of Mademoiselle. 

“ I must get her to play at the parish concert. Get 

her to play to me. Music—music-” 

And as a boat glides into smooth water from the 
rough, into a place of flowers after bare stones, so the 
vicar slept, and dreamed of two brown eyes with a spot 
of yellow, as it might be kingcups, between sun and 
shadow in a forest pool. 



CHAPTER XII 


When Mrs. Jennifer woke next morning, she thought: 
“ What was it ? ” Then she remembered the gover¬ 
ness. Daniel was still asleep. To go back to a subject 
they had disagreed over riled him, but when it wasn’t 
settled what were you to do ? She waited till she saw 
him waking, then said : 

“ Now, dear, about that girl-” 

“ Look here, I like to keep my temper in the 
morning.” 

“ But do you know that she went to Hyssop Church 
last Sunday ? ” 

This bit of news annoyed the vicar. 

“ Let her,” he snapped. 

Mrs. Jennifer sat up and turned right round. 

“ After all you said at the Wurrells’-” she began. 

The vicar bolted into his dressing-room. 

It was one of those boisterous fine March mornings 
when the wind comes straight from the sea, without 
lingering, salt to the lips, driving the clouds as it drove 
the foam. The pink-flowering currant bushes, pulled 
by it, scented the paths ; every bird that had a mate 
was telling the news : “ We’re building, we’re building ; 
we’ve built our nest ! ” followed by a delicious trill, a 
whistle of joy. 

Hurrying down, Daniel met Simonne with a bunch 
of periwinkles for the schoolroom. Her white blouse 

87 



88 TANTALUS 

gave her a fresh, free look ; she was smiling, full of sap 
as the trees. 

“ Do you remember when I discovered you ? ” asked 
Daniel. “ I’ve got to know you since then, eh ? ” 

“ But Monsieur doesn’t know me.” 

“ I’ll know you if you like ! I can ! ” It was not 
the vicar of Hartake, but a good-looking, middle-aged 
man who took hold of the girl and looked into her face. 
“ I will! ” he added, and feeling that she was about to 
slip off like the little dark swallow she was, he tightened 
his hold. “You want adventure,” he laughed. “No 
rest till you’ve had it, eh ? You’ll have it some day. 
But where’s the hurry ? You love to play with life ? 
Love the matches ? Long to be burnt ? ” 

And all at once he felt her shoulders passive ; she 
was standing still, waiting, not looking up, scarcely 
breathing, standing by him as a bird stops singing at 
your footstep, yet waits, too curious to fly ; and a queer 
feeling of “ life to the head ” attacked the vicar ; 
before he quite knew what he had done he had stooped 
and kissed her. 

It was a short, hard, very vital kiss ; quite unlike 
the fatherly touch he dropped sometimes on a young 
girl’s forehead before or after her confirmation. He 
was frightened next moment, trying awkwardly to 
laugh it off; but when the governess simply stood 
and stared at him, he felt ashamed of trying to 
laugh. 

“ I meant it,” was what he wanted to say; “I 
didn’t mean it,” what he ought to say ; so he did 
the only thing he could do as a clergyman—he ran 
away.. 


TANTALUS 


89 

Mademoiselle at the moment of the kiss felt her heart 
give a great jump ; when she stood and stared it was 
with the feeling that something wonderful had happened 
but that it hadn’t ended. She walked away up the 
path thinking she must forget such a strange moment, 
repressing feeling with all her might, squeezing a 
blossom from the currant bushes till it was nothing but 
a small pink pellet; staring at a starling and noting 
the gleam on its feathers ; and all the time with a joy 
that was new and that she was fighting : what it meant 
she did not know, only she feared it. 

Daniel, in his study, was sitting with his head hanging 
down and a very real feeling of compunction. In that 
room (which never got the morning sun) a guilty sense 
was on him ; it was all something so much more than 
Mademoiselle—he had “ kicked out,” but in a wrong 
direction. Now he felt the harness heavy on him as he 
had felt it once or twice lately, unexpectedly, at odd 
moments ; at his own front door one morning. The 
vicarage had a high, arched door with a narrow point 
to the arch ; it was the emanation of a strong, narrow 
idea, and no other idea was possible within it. Daniel 
had taken a sudden dislike to the nails on the door. 
One Sunday, catching sight of the three Misses Wurrel] 
saying the Litany, “ What foolery this is ! ” had been 
his thought, next moment conscientiously suppressed. 

“ There is a good deal of self-sacrifice in our clerical 
life,” was a favourite saying of his. It was true ; that 
“ inner eye ” was a thing they had to sacrifice ; they 
had to look “ beyond,” and if, sometimes, they saw 
nothing, they had to tell the faithful lie and say 
they did. 


9 o 


TANTALUS 


Each had to put his manhood through the tall, 
narrow door. That alone meant some self-sacrifice. No 
matter what their feelings, they had to sanctify the 
bread at such and such a time on Sunday, and with a 
certain dropping of the voice, a certain cat’s-paw foot¬ 
step, they had to pass the cup along a line of kneeling 
ladies. 

On some mornings it was beautiful to do it, on some 
mornings “ the soldiers stick it ” was all they could say 
to themselves, and not a word to the world, not a 
whisper to their own souls even; they were pledged—to 
the Church. 

“ I don’t know what has come to me,” thought 
Daniel. “ I must tighten up ”—tighten the harness ? 

His mind swerved off; he beat his finger on the 
writing-table, frowning, and caught sight of a little 
bundle of papers placed there by his wife : “For the 
Conversion of Romanists,” “ Poems by a Protestant,” 
“ O Lord, Who promised Thy Flesh ”—Daniel squeezed 
them into a hard white ball and flung them into the 
fender. 

Time and habit took the vicar out to morning 
service : very few came on week-days, just the Misses 
Clutterbuck and one Miss Wurrell. 

But at any rate the men came to his “ Friday after¬ 
noons ” at the chalk pit. There, sheltered from the 
wind by the sides of a huge old chalk cutting, he held a 
little improvised prayer-meeting once a week. It had 
worked very well, and this morning the thought of it 
was comforting. He walked out to it thinking, “ I 
must apologise to her ; ought to have done it. Why 
didn’t I ? ” His spirits only began to rise when the 


TANTALUS 


9 1 

chalk pit came in sight. Men in khaki were honest if 
ladies weren’t; there was solidity about their silence 
through “ silent prayer ” ; their eyes often haunted 
him afterwards, they looked so like children, so like 
dumb dogs just asking. 

The curate, Wilson, was there, with a text from 
“ the sixteenth chapter of Saint Mark, verse five . . . 
‘Entering into the sepulchre they saw a young man 
sitting on the right side . . ” 

Daniel was puzzled : “ What on earth can he make 
of that ? ” he thought. He saw the men with their 
eyes fixed on the curate, and a minute or two later on 
their boots. Yellow catkins swung on the bushes 
round the chalk cutting, light grey clouds thinned over 
the sun, a flock of rooks flapped across with a long 
shriek, and all the time Wilson struggled and plunged 
like a man in the coils of some horrible wire. 

“You note the importance of the detail as St. Mark 
gives it to us. Upon which side did the spirit stand ? 
Upon the right side. Now I think we are all a little 
tempted, a little tempted by Providence, a little 
tempted, to stand upon the wrong side. Now, it is our 
duty, we all know very well it is our duty as Chris¬ 
tians-” (“ He looks as though he was going to be 

sick,” thought Daniel )—“ our duty to resist these— 
these compelling . . . these subtle influences . . . 
resist ...” So the address staggered on. 

“ That’ll do ! ” the vicar said sharply in an under¬ 
tone, seeing the men fidget and turn sulky. 

When he returned home he found the vicarage empty. 
It was not yet tea time, the children were out with 
Mademoiselle, Matilda was at a meeting. The rooms 



92 


TANTALUS 


struck chill; Daniel felt his vicarage heavy on him. 
The afternoon settled in grey, without wind, only a 
sense of rain coming. An hour of muffled violence 
when the first purple pansy seemed trying to break the 
heavens with its staring. 


CHAPTER XIII 


The Misses Clutterbuck, loyal parishioners, toiling 
home from a sewing league that afternoon, met Simonne 
and the children; the Clutterbucks walked at a long, 
loping gait, Simonne with short, brisk steps ; she held 
her head up, theirs, on thin necks, hung down. Their 
eyes, prominent and coloured bluish-brown, jibbed all 
day from all they saw for fear they might see something 
wrong; suggestive eyes, embarrassing; and as if 
conscious of injustice, the Misses Clutterbuck bore a 
marked bitter look. A crushed magenta spot burned 
on their cheeks. Watching three of them now, long- 
limbed, in dark brown coats and skirts, and small dark 
caps, Simonne disliked them. 

Their three heads nodded at her, their eyes met hers, 
and quickly escaped contact. When she had passed 
them they all three looked back. 

“ They’re fond of him too,” thought Simonne, and 
there came a vision of the confusion the Misses Clutter¬ 
buck would have been in if Daniel had kissed one of 
them. 

At the vicarage gate she met the postman. 

“ Shifty weather, miss ! ” He felt in his brown 
canvas bag and took out the letters, eight for the vicar. 
The children seized them and ran on ahead. One for 
herself from her employer. Standing near the holly 
tree she read a curt note recalling herself and her pupils 
93 


94 


TANTALUS 


to town. “ Easter ... at home with me . . .” The 
phrases became disjointed; she felt she could not go 
straight in and give this news ; she could not tell quite 
what it meant: it hurt, and she felt frightened. 

“ Ma’mselle ! ” shouted Hilda. 

Simonne wished that she could hide. She felt 
nervous, as though she had suddenly to give lessons in 
the middle of the night. She ran into the little green¬ 
house. It was warm here ; a hospital really, for all 
the plants which had run to seed. Yellowish ferns 
stood under the shelves, and above them pots of bare 
spiraea and immensely tall old primuli. It was Mrs. 
Jennifer’s “ glory-hole ” and its mossy smell sickened 
the governess. 

“ I must go,” she thought; and there came a little 
burning above her heart-sinking. Why must things 
have an end ? “I have been happy here,” she realised ; 
“ and lately more happy. I have never been so happy 
in my life ! ” And each day stood out stamped, as it 
were, with an image of Daniel Jennifer. His high head 
with its grizzled hair, bent over the porridge, his eyes 
smiling at her ; or tea time, and sunlight silvering his 
nose, his lips screwed up, and his dark eyes still very 
amical. Standing in the little greenhouse she was 
overcome with memories—all the happy times at 
Hartake. 

“ But I am nothing,” she told herself; “I am not 
consulted.” 

Trees rustling in a sudden shower seemed all rebellious, 
but they were rooted, they could not leap or fly. The 
train would take her back to Bays water. Facts must 
be faced, she must act as usual, and of course she must 


TANTALUS 


95 


tell Mrs. Jennifer. She could picture good, kind 
Mrs. Jennifer’s astonishment that would last quite ten 
minutes—simple surprise at anything fresh ; then her 
single-minded point of view occupied at once with 
clean clothes from the wash, and never a suspicion 
that she, Simonne, was suffering. 

The shower was over. The bushes round her rustled, 
the little boys were shouting : “ I spy ! ” and next 
moment wet fingers grasped her sleeve; little fists, 
sharp-pointed elbows, and bare knees came knuckling 
over her body. A new thought was driven upward : 
Would he be sorry at her going ? 

When the children had run upstairs, Simonne paused 
by that bench beneath the vicar’s hats, then she tapped 
on the study door. 

“ I have received a letter,” she began at once. 
“ Mrs. Buckle recalls us to London.” 

“ To London ? ” He had not realised. “ London ? ” 
he repeated, his voice changing, his eyes suddenly open 
wide ; then as his scattered wits came back he realised 
that she stood there for some reason. Almost in a 
whisper he said : “ London ? ” 

Her answer was to hand him the letter. 

“ Do you want to go ? ” 

Simonne’s heart made an odd jerk forward. 

“ Could you prevent us going ? ” she asked. 

Then his eyebrows flew up, high ; he realised that 
she was glad to stay, and a little thin colour crept up 
in his cheeks. 

“ You’re a good girl,” he said abruptly, and seemed 
to think he had closed the matter ; but : 

“ What will Monsieur do ? ” she asked. 


TANTALUS 


96 

“ Do ? Why, write to my sister-in-law, say— 
well-” 

“ Say it will be bad travelling Easter time.” 

“Yes, trains, and schools breaking up-” 

“ But Mrs. Jennifer ? ” 

“ Leave that to me. Another little secret, eh ? ” 

When Daniel smiled his face became full of the 
roguish innocence of some naughty boy of three; it 
was like the sun-gleam that is swept across the Channel 
on a windy, rippling day. 

The tea bell rang ; Mrs. Jennifer came in with Mrs. 
Wilson, still discussing the last rehearsal at the Parish 
Room ; Daniel and Simonne both talked and laughed 
that day without listening or waiting for replies. 
Simonne bent her face to eat with a soft hurry that was 
shy but stimulating. 

“ I wonder if Mademoiselle really likes the country ? ” 
joked the vicar. 

“ When the country makes nice people,” she replied. 
“ I think townspeople are all too busy, don’t you 
think so ? ” she asked Mrs. Wilson. Daniel broke 
in : 

“I’m afraid Hartake’s a slow little place.” 

“ Places are nothing ! ” The words were tossed off 
her tongue swiftly, as the wind takes the top brown 
leaves from a garden pile; and her face said plainly : 
“ When we’ve just begun to speak of people, why go 
back to places ? ” 

“ Do people make places, or places people ? ” asked 
Daniel. 

And as if appreciating this divination on his part, 
her answer : “ It is the people who matter,” was given 




TANTALUS 


97 

with another short, swift look. The vicar began 
playing a five-finger exercise on the cloth. 

“ Kindness, it’s the real thing worth more than all, 
n’est-ce pas , Mrs. Wilson ? And imagination ; I love 
imagination ! ” She leaned on the table looking up 
into all their faces ; and a feeling of honey at the heart 
attacked the vicar. The walls of his house receded, 
there was space, and a thin veil over the general harsh 
effect. He stared at a lithograph of his grandmother 
without knowing in the least what it was, and was only 
brought sharply to earth by Hilda’s voice : 

“ You do look funny, Uncle Dan ! ” 

The girl bent her eyes on her plate ; his shoes creaked 
under the table ; but that moment had been a revela¬ 
tion—what of, he couldn’t tell exactly, just one of those 
strange little growths of intimacy like the flowering of 
a melon in the hotbeds. 

“ Have some more tea ? ” Matilda was saying in an 
ordinary voice meantime. “You work so hard, dear. 
Mademoiselle was out in all that rain, oughtn’t she to 
run and change ? Where were you, Mademoiselle ? ” 

“ In the greenhouse.” 

“ In the greenhouse ? ” Daniel heard himself echoing. 
What he said with his eyes was : “ Can we repeat that 
moment ? ” But Simonne would not look at him. She 
sat like one who hugs a secret, and Daniel watched her 
as we watch something potential that we must needs 
investigate and yet half fear to touch. 

Tea being over, they drew together round the fire for 
once, Mrs. Wilson watching the smoke and thinking of 
what she had gone through before she married, and 
after, and what she must still go through. She was 


TANTALUS 


98 

older than the curate, and had determined to marry 
him when he came to her father’s poor parish twelve 
years before. They had no children. This lack and 
the fact that he had never been a lover, had cast a 
silent bitterness over her life. She would have liked 
to fondle him as mothers do their sons, but his ecclesias¬ 
tical position placed him above it in both their estima¬ 
tions. She longed to see him popular, she hated 
squalor, and above all she hated being a “ curate’s ” 
wife when her real talents, she felt, demanded that she 
should be at least a rural dean’s. Her husband was 
so painstaking, she couldn’t hurry him. His “ duty ” 
was the burden of his life ; “ saying it many times, 
helps ”—his formula. 

Simonne looked at the red glow, while her cheeks, 
caught by the storm, seemed trying to burst their skin. 
Daniel followed a tongue of flame which continually 
leaped and vanished, and leaped again. 

For three months he had lived in the same house with 
the governess, constantly walking with her, meeting 
four times a day at table, but in these silent moments 
by the fire their friendship progressed at the rate of 
two horses galloping; neither would speak for fear of 
arresting the pace. Daniel tried to look as if he was con¬ 
centrating on the tongue of flame; Simonne was giving 
out the faint, silent stir of a red may-tree in blossom. 

“ She’s fond of me,” Daniel was thinking. 

“ He wants me ! ” thought Simonne. 

The curate’s wife got up to go ; her head ached, 
there was too much electricity in the air these close 
spring days, and she hurried home to “ Nirvannah,” 
her lodgingfin Bosworth Road. 


TANTALUS 


99 


Mrs. Jennifer hurried out to the potatoes. 

When Daniel left the dining-room he went to his 
study and wrote : 

“ My dear Maggie,— 

“ The children have, as usual, been our greatest 
joy; even the war-demons which infest imagina¬ 
tion fade away at sound of Hilda's laugh. I hear 
that you want them back very soon, and can 
heartily appreciate your feeling; but for their 
sakes, if not for ours, won't you spare them to us 
a little longer ? 

“ Claude has only lately lost that naughty cough 
of his, and Hilda is growing like a mushroom. It 
will really be too sad if the dear chicks travel now, 
and pick up some nasty germ. Trains, as you 
know, will be crowded . . ." 

Half the joy of spring lies in its moisture ; it is the 
sudden sunlight swift on the heels of the hard shower, 
the absence of all dust and staleness. Wet trees have 
a glorious nakedness, and when a scud of wind pulls 
their boughs about they have a laughing life that dry 
trees never attain—something of the startled bather 
flying at a step. 

Yellow sunlight played with the vicar’s eyes, it came 
in long thin needles through the cedar tree ; it made 
wet ink gleam on the word Bayswater. 

“ Maggie will get it to-morrow,” he thought, and 
heard Dunstan yodelling in the plantation. A high- 
pitched, foreign voice was calling : “ Heelda ! ” 

Daniel took his tall hat with the curly brim and 
jammed it over his fine high forehead, and went out of 
fhe house to post. 


CHAPTER XIV 


When the sun touched the rim of the earth that 
evening, a tall woman stepped out of the train at a 
country station. The sky, coloured dusky orange, was 
darkened by contrast with the burning sun, and the 
lady’s spruce, brown tailor-made looked dusky, too, 
against her yellow face. This wayside station con¬ 
sisted of a few bushes by a wooden paling, a deserted 
bench, one sleepy porter. The tall traveller asked him : 

“ Stephens here ? ” 

“ Dead,” said the porter. 

“ What’s your name ? ” 

“ Chicken.” 

“ Carry this up to the Rectory, please.” She held 
out a suitcase. 

“ Can’t leave th’ station.” 

“ But there are no more trains ? ” 

“ That doan’ matter.” 

The lady left him as we leave useless things. 

She walked like one who means “ to get there ” and 
to whom sunlight in the eyes is mere annoyance. Her 
hard, straight back suggested hard, straight things, 
like the solitary pine—a tree which has been a mark 
for the winds. 

The sun sank, the west flared, purple lights on 
copper ; this lady’s coat and skirt showed black against 
it; but now her eyes were free to skim the landscape 

IOO 


TANTALUS 


IOI 


over; well remembered fields, and lanes, and by the 
church those elms. Fifteen years before, she had left 
that village, walking furiously, her thin mouth set, and 
in her face the glow of self-assertion. She had left it 
“ to show them.” And now that she was married, she 
came home “ to show them.” Her name was Margaret 
Buckle. 

The narrow lane she walked in became muddy, and 
full of a smell of sheep ; the hawthorn hedge gave 
place to low flint walls. There, facing the field where 
the old church stood, was the low, grey rectory. 

It was eight o’clock, getting dark indoors. Through 
a long narrow window she saw her father nodding at 
his desk. Very white and frail he looked, alone like 
that, as if preaching to silence ; but if sound of any 
kind reached him, he quivered like a snowdrop. 

There was a side gate leading to the rectory meadow. 
There, in the afterglow, stood Mrs. Campion, calling to 
her fowls. The hens raced towards her, one long- 
legged cock outstripped them all; while high above a 
flock of rooks applauded, like spectators. 

Every night the weather folded Mrs. Campion, or 
the flushed sky gilded her; she was regular in habits 
as the motion of the earth, and, like the earth, many 
things depended on her. 

“ Hullo, mother ! Just run down for a night or 
two.” 

“ My dear Maggie ? ” 

Mrs. Campion was a little shorter than her daughter, 
more sturdily built. Her skin was coloured dusky red, 
her dark brown eyes were almost blue ; they did not 
sparkle, but they served as good policemen. 


102 


TANTALUS 


“ How’s Maurice ? ” was her question. Mrs. Cam¬ 
pion’s power lay in withholding things ; she withheld 
curiosity when she asked a question, and emotion when 
she heard an answer, but every one knew there was 
blood and temper, and will, and heat behind that 
power. 

Her daughter answered : 

“ The same as usual; he thinks too much of his 
health.” 

“ He misses the children, probably,” said Mrs. 
Campion. 

Light passed off the meadows ; grass, trees, distant 
woods were dinged as though tired after some service 
of adoration. 

“ Why did I come ? ” thought Maggie. Aloud she 
said : “I had to send the children out of town.” 

“ Tilly, I know, is very glad of your help,” replied 
her mother, “ and Daniel likes young life ; he’s learning 
French, dear Tilly writes me.” 

A few minutes’ walking brought them back to the 
house ; one lamp was alight, and close to it hovered 
the old man’s head. At sight of his daughter his thin 
neck wagged, but his blue eyes had the look of the 
country speedwell which sees nothing but the sky. 

Another daughter came in to supper, the last one 
left at home since war called out to women ; Frances, 
the fifth “ Campion girl.” 

" Why, Maggie ? ” 

" Hullo, Cis ! ” 

So the tall pine might look at a yellow reed. But 
this pale, fair Frances, who had just escaped being 
pretty, put all her force into her Campion eyes when 


TANTALUS 


103 


she assured her London sister that she “ never had a 
minute all day long ! ” Assertion of occupation is the 
creed of some women, their stamp as Christians. 

A frugal supper eaten, the Campions, in their drawing¬ 
room, gathered round a lamp with a faded rose silk 
shade. Mrs. Campion was the keynote to that rather 
weathered room ; the things in it had all been good ; 
good things go on. Its mistress sat in it strong, quiet, 
busy, keeping things together by that power of self- 
control above a heart which really beat warm blood. 

“ Maggie’s society is getting on,” she told her hus¬ 
band. “ Maggie has been made vice-president. She’s 
having the children home for Easter.” And to 
Frances : “ I met Mrs. Thom, she’s sending the lilies 
as usual.” And to her daughter Margaret: “ Maurice 
will miss you, my dear.” 

“ Men miss comfort, that’s all,” said Maggie. 

Perhaps Mrs. Campion had suffered from self- 
suppression in that village before Maggie’s clear, dis¬ 
illusioned eyes saw daylight; a touch of spleen seemed 
to work in her daughter now. 

“ His liver’s out of order,” she said sharply. “ If 
only he would get out—but he just sits and sits.” Her 
words dried up. 

“ Does he go to church ? ” The old man gazed 
wistfully at this tall, hard, dark-skinned daughter 
whose lips were so narrow and whose cheek was lemon- 
coloured. 

“ I expect his health prevents him,” said Mrs. Cam¬ 
pion placidly. Thinking of his other son-in-law 
Campion muttered : 

“ Daniel, he’s another of these modern young men.” 


104 


TANTALUS 


“ Daniel must be forty-five ! ” murmured Maggie. 

“ He’s very vital,” observed Mrs. Campion. 

“ He’s a fool! ” said Maggie curtly. 

“ No, Maggie, you were never quite fair to him.” 

These few words round the rose-shaded lamp were 
as a cat’s light footstep over ice. Mrs. Campion was 
thinking : “ How Maggie did dislike him ! ” Old 

Campion sat recollecting an uneasy summer (was it 
twenty years ago ?) when that young Jennifer had 
troubled them all, and before any one had time to 
think, had gone and got married to Matilda. They 
had sat by the window in the drawing-room here, the 
same people, the same quiet, crisp conversation; 
Maggie, flinging her hair back ; a wild, cantankerous 
girl she had been, always on the move, restless, turning 
up behind your chair, fighting with young Jennifer ; 
anxious, interesting . . . His thoughts roamed off ; 
he had “ done his duty.” Twice a day for forty years 
he had prayed in his church to God. Yes, yes, he had 
married them in his own church. What a dear, shy 
thing Matilda was ! He saw her after the wedding 
breakfast, in a new blue dress with a lot of buttons, 
sunshine on her brown, wet lashes, and blue eyes looking 
at that Jennifer boy as though he were the Lord 
Almighty. And the bridesmaids had worn maize- 
yellow frocks, and they had carried pink sweet-peas. 

“ Pretty wedding, pretty wedding ! ” he said aloud. 

Throughout the silence following Maggie asked 
herself once more : “ Why do I come home ? ” An 
itch to show her power in the world ? And then, back 
in that old drawing-room, by the rose-shaded lamp, 
among shadows of old chests and cabinets, there was 


TANTALUS 


105 


nothing to show ; she could not shake their settled 
lives, or rouse their jealousy. Her mother’s influence 
was still too strong, her father’s piety too safe ; and as 
for Frances-! 

The rector broke the silence with a continuation of 
his thoughts : 

“ A busy place, Hartake. Busy man. Happy 
home—yes, happy home.” 

But Maggie thought : “ I’ll go to-morrow. I can’t 
stand it. It’s always the same—Daniel and Tilly ! 
One would think there had never been another 
marriage ! ” 

At bedtime she remarked, off-hand : 

“I’m going on to see old Nursie to-morrow ; she’s 
down with bronchitis again.” 

Mrs. Campion looked older by morning light; she 
smiled at every one, and talked of things of no im¬ 
portance, “ Never say anything and nothing will 
happen ” being her attitude. 

At half-past ten Maggie, with her sister and parents, 
walked out past the elms. 

“ Good-bye ! Good-bye ! ” quavered the old man. 
“ I can’t come any further—Morning Prayer. Good¬ 
bye.” And screening his aged blue eyes from the sun, 
he went towards his church. 

Mrs. Campion, after kissing her daughter with quiet 
authority, followed him. Frances walked to the 
station. Two long-legged women with long backs 
warmed by the sun, and two faces in shadow, both with 
a look of grievance. Frances remarked : 

“ Mother’s awful! ” 

“ Why don’t you go off on your own ? ” asked Maggie, 



io6 


TANTALUS 


“ Mother talks of nothing but Tilly ; you'd think I 
wasn't alive. It's all what Tilly’s doing : her vege¬ 
tables, their parish concert next week, their new cook, 
even Daniel’s sermons—Tilly writes them to us, you 
know.” 

“ If you marry, keep your own life, as I do,” said 
Maggie. 

“ Theirs was a real love marriage,” answered Frances 
wistfully. 

Maggie quickened the pace. At the station she 
remarked : 

“ Send letters to town, if any come ; I shan't stay 
more than a day with nurse. Good-bye. Don’t 
grizzle ! ” 

Next morning Daniel's letter arrived, re-directed 
from Bayswater; it was sent back to town. But 
Maggie was sitting by a sick bed nursing a tottering, 
spent old woman ; hauling her to life again by the 
strength in her clear eyes. 


CHAPTER XV 


Passion Week to a good clergyman is like harvesting 
to a farmer—hard, zealous work in the sight of the 
world. 

Jennifer had always loved Passion Week; it was a 
time of self-sacrifice when you did “ your bit ” and 
showed the laity what kind of stuff you were made of. 
There was your Easter register, kept year by year ; if 
it increased, what sense of pleasure ! 

“ A good man never spares himself/’ was Daniel’s 
motto, and it was his custom to put aside home life and 
to “ live for the Church ” throughout Passion Week. 
Meals were shifted to suit services, and sometimes 
missed altogether while he went visiting distant ham¬ 
lets. He sat alone a good deal in his study, “ praying,” 
it was believed, “ focussing ” his Good Friday point. 
But this year he sat and listened to the mice in the 
wainscoting. 

On Thursday morning, in his Alpine jacket, with the 
window shut against the gale outside and the door shut 
against disturbance, he sat at his table and frowned at 
blank sheets of paper. Sometimes he shrugged his 
shoulders as we shrug them in the course of an argu¬ 
ment, then sat very still, concentrating. For another 
half-hour he tried to write while Hilda practised scales, 
but when she began her Viennese waltz, he desisted. 
There was something disturbing about children in a 
107 


io8 


TANTALUS 


house—it upset you, like spring-cleaning. Their faces 
laughed at you from dangerous angles above banisters ; 
you found evidence of them all day long in caps, and 
gloves, and flowers left on chairs : you heard them at 
one moment, and sat and listened for them through the 
next. He became aware of Simonne counting : “ Un, 
deux, trois ”—and sat nodding his head in time. 

“ I must talk to her,” he told himself. The governess 
had worn an expectant look, but to-day it was with¬ 
drawn. Instinct told him it was better so, but he felt 
unaccountably troubled. It was a relief when Matilda 
told him that they were summoned to Hartake House 
that evening for an informal discussion of the parish 
concert. 

An evening at Miss Cantyre’s resembled sitting in the 
stalls at a popular play ; that is to say, solid comfort, 
and life arranged for pleasure. Miss Cantyre was tall 
and elegant, her cheeks on each side of a high, thin nose 
were creased by long, thin lines, her hair had the tint 
of yellow walnut skin. The slight drawl in her voice 
and her charming clothes stood between visitors, and 
her real features as the rainbow stands between a man 
and the rain. She sat in a chair that was soft and 
deep ; and in another deep, soft chair, sat the vicar. 

Yes, it was a relief to sip black coffee, to watch the 
white lace flapping from Miss Cantyre’s arms, and to 
feel so safe, so admirably secure from all emotion. 
What were they saying ? The “ latest thing at 
Hyssop ...” 

The vicar sat in his favourite attitude with his hands 
palm to palm, and his head thrust forward; his 
parishioner’s long teeth shone in the lamplight, her 


TANTALUS 


109 

fingers hung over her long thin knees, and her green 
eyes praised and flattered him. It was like sucking 
orange through a lump of sugar, this revelation of life 
through Miss Cantyre. 

But a far-away, tired feeling came over Daniel: he 
was recalled by hearing Matilda tell them that Made¬ 
moiselle Dubois could play the piano. 

“ Good ? ” asked Miss Bostock, with a sly, frosty 
smile. What could he say ? 

“ Oh ! Natural musician.” 

“ That'll do instead of Bessie Weeks. Put her 
down.” 

“ I can ask her if she cares to.” 

Miss Cantyre looked quite surprised, and he felt 
suddenly irritated. A governess should feel honoured, 
he gathered, and he wanted to shout: “ But she’s 
different quite ! She’s a flower, a pearl, a bird ! ” 

“You tell her,” suggested Miss Bostock. “ Nobody 
could say ‘ no ’ to Mr. Jennifer ! You ask her with 
that smile of yours.” 

“You tell her we want to beat Hyssop,” said some 
one else. 

But Daniel sat staring at the lamp ; he was saying 
to himself for the first time then : “ I’m in love with 
her ! ” 

It had been their careless voices, their lack of interest 
in the governess, something in their acceptance of her 
as if she were a gramophone record. Simonne, in his 
thoughts, leaped out from this, and his heart had 
leaped at the vision of her. 

He was not shocked, but filled, for an instant, with 
measureless hope. What this hope signified did not 


no 


TANTALUS 


trouble him ; he had forgotten who he was and that he 
was married. He felt that he had discovered the secret 
of life ; that life, like an egg, was hatched at last, and 
the bird that escaped was Love. 

The lamp chimney in front of him cracked. His 
hands came down on his knees. 

“ Quite made the vicar jump ! ” he heard somebody 
saying. He was aware all at once of a ghastly sensation 
drawn over his face that he knew was a “ smile ” ; of 
a hot, heavy thing in him goring his ribs that he knew 
was a “ heart ” ; of a brilliant light in him to be hidden 
now and for ever after ; and this, he knew, was “ love/' 
There appeared to be a carcase with cold extremities, 
an inadequate thing. Would it hold together ? It 
must. And with that came a sudden nightmare of 
insecurity. These ladies were looking at him. 

“ A touch of frost ? ” 

“ Ah ! yes, frost, no doubt. Frost—frost and lamp- 
chimneys-” 

“ It would be safer to put it out/' suggested Mrs. 
Jennifer. 

“ Well, I think it's time we all had a little fruit salad,” 
announced Miss Cantyre. 

“ Fool! Fool! ” Daniel said to himself ; and aloud : 
“ Dear lady, you spoil us ! ” 

“You ask her,” his wife reminded him on the way 
home, and this simple remark hurt him as if some one 
had jogged a wound. 

“No, you,” he muttered. 

“ But, Daniel, I think she’s fond of you.” 

Was life possible with such blunderers round his 
path ? 



TANTALUS 


hi 


Thank heaven she had gone to bed when they got in. 
His study met him with new meaning ; it was a battle¬ 
field where to-day he had fought blindfold, and the 
result of that fight—empty sheets of paper ! 

The sigh he gave blew them off his table. Then 
came Matilda’s voice : 

“ Need you work to-night, dear ? You’ve done so 
much.” 

Daniel covered his eyes and squeezed them tight 
until a million spots of light danced out. 

“ I’m coming,” he answered. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Good Friday broke wet. 

There was an early service, badly attended; it was 
gloomy and dark in the church. Daniel’s clothes were 
soaked by the time he got home to breakfast. He 
made this an excuse to remain a long while in his room. 
When he came down the tea was rank and strong, but 
the girl had gone to the schoolroom. It had become 
his habit to look in before she started lessons ; but 
to-day he went straight to the study. There was his 
address unfocussed still; sitting at it he became 
gradually immersed in a smell of codfish cooking. 

All the ladies of his parish came to the three-hours’ 
service. The vicar met them with a cold, impressive 
face. When an aeroplane flew over the roof, breaking 
a moment’s solemn silence, there was at once a shifting 
of knees, a sighing; it was vexing, just as they were 
beginning to feel . . . 

Daniel was conscious of eyes watching him. Could 
he make them all sweat with the pain of the Cross as he 
had done year by year ? “ But what’s the good ! ” 
he wondered. “ All my life . . . and I’m holding 
precisely the same service ... If only . . 

He must pray again, work up once more to silence, 
and the “ second ” address. He leaned over the 
pulpit and took stock of his flock : it was harder to grip 
them now; but he might not close the service till the 
112 


TANTALUS 


ii 3 

last hour had passed. This fact became poignant when 
an impulse to hurry home attacked him. He was in 
the middle of the seventh discourse when he feltjthis 
sudden uneasiness; an invasion made by his own 
affairs ; the vicarage instead of Judaea. While he 
preached the feeling mounted in him, making him stare 
about; he began to watch the door, then fancied that 
his wife was missing; he searched and grew more 
anxious ; an hour ago he had seen her praying. He 
could scarcely restrain himself while they all sang 
slowly but heartily, “ It is finished/' a hymn with ten 
verses. 

In the vestry Daniel flung off his surplice, and without 
waiting to speak, hurried out by a side gate. It was 
raining, roads were deep in yellow slime, last year's 
leaves lay here and there like bits of flattened leather. 
At the gate Daniel heard water rush and gurgle down 
the drive. “ Of course I shall find them indoors," he 
thought. 

The vicarage faced him as usual, big, strong, auto¬ 
cratic. “You shall go my way," it said to all who 
lived in it. There was the same smell of decayed 
goloshes, the hall was dark, the house silent. 

Nobody answered when he called. Daniel pulled 
open doors, thrust his face into empty rooms, went to 
the kitchen and was again immersed in a smell of 
codfish. 

“ Th' missis left a message," said Kate carelessly ; 
“ a telegram come." 

“ What ? " cried Daniel. 

“ When you was at the three-hours’ service. I sent 
it down for the sidesman to give th’ missis." 


TANTALUS 


114 

“ Well ? Well ? " 

“ They've gone," said the girl laconically. 

“ How long ago ? " asked the vicar. 

“ Oh, they packed to catch the two-forty-five. They 
run all the way. Took the luggage on a barrer. They 
must 'ave caught it. Oh yes, they was in time." 

Daniel left the girl abruptly and sat in the hall with 
his head in his hands. Across his pain came another 
urgent call to action. 

He looked at his watch; ten-past three. Good 
Friday trains—there was a chance—there must be ! 

That essential young Daniel of the hockey-team 
photograph burst through all coverings; he ran the 
whole way to the station. What he should do if he 
caught them he did not ask himself. 

A regiment stood in line outside the station door, and 
a brass band was playing sentimental ragtime ; he had 
some difficulty in getting through, there were sentries 
who wanted to stop him: “ Troops leavin’," he was told. 

“ It's a matter of life and death ! " he said so earnestly 
that the sentries let him pass. 

The station building was full of men in a long, close- 
packed crocodile line, straining to the booking-office, 
and at the head of this procession he caught sight of 
his wife's brown mackintosh. Then he heard the click 
made by the sliding back of the wooden slab in front 
of the ticket-seller’s hole; he tore his way through a 
crowd of men shouting : 

“ No ! No ! Wait! " 

His wife, startled, turned towards him, and that gave 
him another moment. He caught hold of her and 
pushed her out of the line. 


TANTALUS 


ii 5 

“ Make haste, please! ” rapped the ticket-seller. 
The men closed up. 

“ Thank God ! ” cried Daniel. 

“ But, Maggie-” 

“ Don’t fight with me. Wait, wait! ” 

Mrs. Jennifer thrust a piece of paper in his face : 
“ Send children at once.” But Daniel did not listen. 
In the quick glance of recognition between himself and 
the governess he had received one of those impressions 
which last for life. 

“ Does that lady want tickets ? ” rapped out the 
clerk at this moment. 

“ No,” said Daniel. 

“ Yes ! ” cried Mrs. Jennifer. 

Mrs. Jennifer was not used to resisting her husband, 
but she loved her sister, and feared her, too ; Maggie 
was a hard woman. 

“ I don’t know what to do ! ” she gasped, addressing 
in turn her husband, the children, the station-master 
and the red-faced regiment. 

“ Leave it to me,” said the vicar. 

“ We aren’t going ? ” shouted Hilda; and then, 
jumping, so that all the soldiers laughed : " Ma’m 
selle ! Ma’mselle ! we needn’t go ! Uncle Dan has 
got us back ! ” 

“ I hope you know what you are doing ? ” asked 
Mrs. Jennifer, looking at the vicar like a harassed but 
still faithful dog. 

" Of course I do. I can’t explain in here.” 

“ Tike yer seats ! ” 

" Hurry up, there ! ” 

The shuffling sound of men’s feet quickened. 


n6 


TANTALUS 


“ Have you heard from Maggie ? ” asked Mrs. 
Jennifer. 

The loud scream of an engine drowned all answer. 
Men marched to the platform, the guard could be seen 
running with his green flag, doors slammed, soldiers' 
faces filled the windows, their heads hung out like 
crimson globes, and the few civilians left still ran about 
distractedly. 

“ It's the last train to-day ! " panted Mrs. Jennifer. 
“ If only-" 

But Daniel had a feeling of honey at the heart. 

“ It's all right, my dear ! " he repeated incessantly, 
while trying to answer his wife's questions. “We've 
had a little secret correspondence, Maggie and I! That's 
to say she wrote first to our young friend, here, suggest¬ 
ing the children’s return—but for such inadequate 
reasons ! You know how autocratic Maggie is ! She 
never thought about the trains-" 

“ But still-? " persisted Mrs. Jennifer (though 

beginning to be hypnotised by her husband's authority); 
Daniel often arranged things without her, and he 
seemed quite certain now that he was right. “ Won't 
Maggie wonder ? " 

“ I wrote to her myself," was Daniel's answer; 

“ this wire she sent was just-! " he shrugged his 

shoulders ; in fact, he could find no other explanation ! 

“ Why didn't you tell me that my sister wrote ? " 
Mrs. Jennifer asked Simonne. The governess looked 
at Daniel. 

“ That's my affair ! " he answered, “ I just thought 
I'd settle what concerns the children’s happiness myself! 
So Maggie can't scold you —you see! ha! ha! " 






TANTALUS 


117 

“ Dear Daniel/' thought Mrs. Jennifer, “ he's just 
like a boy of six, sometimes ! " But she felt uneasy. 

When Simonne went early to her room that night 
she looked at herself in Margaret's glass ; not at the 
shape of her hair or the sheen of her scarf, but at her 
eyes, and her face burned redder while she looked. 
She felt too big for Margaret’s glass. Some tree-bud 
bursting from its sheath would want the sky and all the 
stars ! She felt too big for life as a governess. 

Tea had been quiet enough ; at supper the vicar was 
preoccupied, and she, too, had not looked at him ; they 
had not addressed each other, all their conversa¬ 
tion had been with Mrs. Jennifer. Fortunately Mrs. 
Jennifer had a lot to tell them about a meeting she had 
been to yesterday on the “ Increase of Juvenile Crime." 

“ It's the boys of fifteen," she told them : “ their 
fathers are away, and they’ve got out of hand ; it's 
not wickedness, but sheer bravado." 

“ Youth," said the vicar. 

'‘Yes, yes ! I told Miss Wurrell-" 

The evening, spent with books and needlework, had 
been another lull. She had glanced up once and seen 
Daniel biting his forefinger. 

“ Do read Bishop Belhanger’s article," his wife had 
begged him ; but then both forgot it; Mrs. Jennifer 
had only asked to please him. When she said “ Bed¬ 
time ! " expectation tightened to an impossible pitch, 
and afraid of her own strange feelings, Simonne hurried 
away. The vicar, too, turned quickly to the door; 
they met by the little table where the candlesticks were 
set, and all at once he stretched his hand out, their eyes 
were upon each other, and by candlelight his looked 



n8 


TANTALUS 


dark and quick. Next moment he had squeezed her 
hand, and she was running up the stairs. 

A garden of flowers will move with a strange outward 
motion on a glorious summer day ; the French girl felt 
life stir in her like that. She wanted to see her face as 
he had seen it, throbbing, glowing like a bright rose. 
What ? And why ? She would not ask herself. 
When she looked at her eyes she thought, “ He likes 
them ! ” when she looked at her lips she thought, “ He 
kissed them ! ” and eyes and lips were new possessions 
for one purpose, to give pleasure. She wanted to give 
infinitely, her whole life if necessary, for joy of this 
transformation. 

“ I have been quiet enough,” she told herself. “ Let 
me live to-night. To-morrow I must pretend.” 

But when her thoughts moved forward she turned 
them back to that moment at the station. 

“ It was still my friend, M. Jennifer, who kissed me,” 
she whispered; “ but now! Oh ! we are all two 

people for ever and ever, and he and I have discovered 
each other, and now we can never forget! ” 

She walked about Margaret's little room, sat for a 
moment on the bed, jumped up and walked about 
again. She said to herself, with quick French decision : 
“ It's all ridiculous ! ” and, drawing another breath, 
" Wonderful! ” 

When she thought of Daniel she no longer saw him 
as the vicar, but young and vital as he looked in the 
hockey-team photograph. “ It's nothing,” she said, 
and again lost herself dreaming. 

Only in bed, in the dark, with eyes wide open, she 
asked herself how it had begun ? 


TANTALUS 


119 

There had been a moment, she remembered, after his 
first visit to the schoolroom, when she made a dis¬ 
covery : “ M. Jennifer est gentil.” Thereafter she had 
looked at him expecting what she had divined, and he 
had responded; that was all. He had been kind at 
the time of her little trouble, not clerical or patronising. 
This warm human feeling had increased with each 
spring day, just as the garden increased in depth of 
colour from snowdrops to blue hyacinths, from daffodils 
to blood-red wallflowers. She felt so rich and blessed 
in this discovery, right and wrong had no being in it, 
and to-morrow would be time enough to think. 

“ Madame is good, she is a saint/' the girl said to her 
pillow, “ but M. Jennifer est gentil! ” 


CHAPTER XVII 


Simonne appeared at breakfast the next day in her 
Sunday blouse, a dark blue silk which shone and glowed 
upon her. She could not look at anything, perhaps she 
feared her eyes might come to rest and never move 
again! They stole about the room, or made the 
sudden dip and swerve of swallows. 

Mrs. Jennifer looked up all at once from her letters, 
exclaiming : “ Maggie has been away, she expected to 
find the children when she got back/’ 

“ Ah ! then my letter has followed her round/' 

“You understand my sister-in-law is very angry ! " 
Daniel said to Simonne when he joined the children on 
their walk that day. 

“ Light talk," he was saying to himself; “I must 
keep it light." Outdoors he could smile breezily; 
there was nothing wrong in a walk like this, it simply 
“ kept things going." 

“ When you do go," he continued, speaking to the 
children, “ we shan't forget you." 

“ I think it's rot, our going," said Hilda decidedly. 

“ Yes, yes," agreed her uncle ; “ you'll find life full 
of rotten things like that." 

“ Life ! " said Simonne ; “ how can we decide to-day 
for to-morrow ? " 

“You would leave things to settle themselves ! " 
asked Daniel. “ But sometimes we are responsible, 
120 


TANTALUS 


121 


you know; sometimes we have already allowed 
affection, emotion—well! well!—and so we have to 
think . . ." he became confused, she was looking 
straight up at him. “ Let us talk with our eyes since 
we can't with our lips," her look seemed to say. There 
was something so vital in her face that he felt ashamed 
again. He regretted more deeply his first step over 
the conventions, feeling more guilty, and, because 
guilty, unable to laugh their intercourse back to simple 
words again. 

“ My dear ! ” he said, and before he could prevent 
himself, had smiled at her. That warmed the atmo¬ 
sphere between them on their country walk. Daniel 
began to feel that he had spring in him, young, eternal, 
like the crying of the lambs. 

“ If we could just do as we like ! " he said, and looked 
tenderly at her. 

“ It's time to go back," she answered, but her 
eyes said: “ Time ? These minutes are as full as 
all my life; I am eternal, here with you in the 
turnip-field." 

Alongside of them ran an old hawthorn hedge 
bursting with buds and full of fluttering finches. 

“ Life goes on," declared Daniel, “ and all in a 
moment we discover its beauty, and power, and 
strength"—he waved his arm over the wet green 
field — “ and then we go back to our duties-" 

“ We can never go back," said Simonne softly. 

Daniel answered : “ When you've had your ‘ to¬ 

morrow,' you'll see ! " 

“ But Monsieur lives for to-morrow, too ? " 

“ Now if I could say ‘ no ' ! " thought Daniel, and 



122 TANTALUS 

looked at her, a quick, intimate look ; and that little 
conversation ended. 

“ To-morrow ! ” the vicar was thinking. “ Heaven 
help to-morrow ! ” 

“ I don’t want to go back to Bayswater,” exclaimed 
Simonne, as if in answer. “ I hate that house. I hate 
that silly life. It was discouraging before, but 
now-! ” 

“ Yes ? ” 

“ It will be worse,” said the girl simply. 

Pleasure, pain, pride, humility, surged over Daniel, 
and below these emotions something in him decided : 
“ She must go.” 

Simonne changed the subject, began to laugh at the 
lambs, clapped her hands and made them run. ‘‘ There’s 
nothing, nothing,” her manner said, “ no need to alter 
anything; we’re all quite happy. Look ! ” Daniel 
laughed and chatted too, but less intimately; they 
were all at once on the defensive with each other, both 
feeling that slight soreness defensive action brings. 

They came in sight of Hartake, an ugly spot amongst 
the fields; quantities of shallow grey roofs in long 
curved rows, increasing to a huddled mass round the 
dark square tower of the church. 

“ You must write to me, sometimes, from London,” 
said the vicar. 

The French girl asked : “ Will Monsieur write ? ” 

The children had been lagging behind, but they ran 
up now. 

“ Look ! ” they shouted, showing a sprig of black¬ 
thorn blossom. 

Daniel was upset by a sudden feeling of reality ; he 


TANTALUS 


123 


seemed to be staring at these things for the first time ; 
the shining ivy leaves were all at once important, his 
life as vicar seemed nothing at all; another strong, 
urgent, powerful sense of life as a living creature, made 
the spring day marvellous. He stared at Simonne and 
felt young. 

“ My God ! " he thought, “ perhaps I feel as she sees 
me ? I feel powerful. Perhaps I’ve never known 
myself before ? This isn't sentiment, or emotionalism, 

it's experience. I've never realised-" Aloud, he 

said, smiling at the children : 

“ I wonder which of us feels the most ‘ grown up ' ? " 

Simonne, catching quickly at his thoughts, answered : 

“ I don't believe in age ! I don't believe it’s real! 
Look at that yellow light running so fast on the hills ; 
life is like that; but people live in houses, and shut 
their eyes. Life is too wonderful. There is something 
more than youth and age." Her face was flushed, she 
had clenched her hands in the excitement of this 
defence. Her emotion stirred Daniel, he asked himself 
was he really young ? Could he face life as she did, 
with a challenge in her eyes ? No ! life was bigger 
than she dreamed of ! It was this contempt of hers 
that made her wonderful. The undefeated spirit asked 
for encounter, and Daniel felt an insane jealousy of the 
man who would some day accept the challenge. 

They walked in silence for a few minutes, then she 
said gently: 

“ Don’t you think life is more real than we know ? 
I mean there are days—there were days at school; I 
remember an evening when I was only fifteen, seeing 
life, but so wonderful, I had to fall on my knees. I 


124 


TANTALUS 


saw the sky as if it had been just created, and the 
poplar trees ; there were red marigolds and iris in that 
garden. There was something-” 

'‘You are just at the beginning. Wait,” said the 
vicar. But Simonne pushed these words aside : 

“ And it is the same with people ; some people are 
more real. Now on the ship there was one man I saw 
alive like that, but in the house in London nobody. 
Then madame say to me, we go to Hartake, and I 
wonder instantly will it be real people ? All the time 

in the train I wonder, and I knew that soon, now-” 

she paused and asked shyly : “ Was Monsieur expecting 
us ? I looked at the station,” Simonne continued ; 
“ do you remember ? ” She was silent again. 

“You saw me ‘ alive ’ ? ” asked Daniel, interested. 
She answered earnestly like one in pursuit of solemn 
discoveries : 

“ I have seen you vital like the sky.” 

“ When ? ” 

She glanced at him, there was no need for speech. 
She hurried on : 

“ Oh ! and before, once—you picked up my book, 

‘ Wuthering Heights/ and I wondered why everything 
seemed to fly. I felt, too, I would like to fly ! ” 

“You did,” laughed Daniel; “ you ran away with 
Hilda, and I remember feeling distinctly lonely. But 
I had one of your times of ‘ real life ' the night you came 
back late from London.” 

“ So long ago ? ” Simonne questioned, and blushed ; 
but immediately lifted her chin as if to defy her 
cheeks. At this moment she caught sight of a distant 
storm. 




TANTALUS 


125 


“ Look ! ” she cried. They stood leaning on an old 
stile staring at hills turned to palest yellow vapour, 
while the rain fell in front on a ridge of blue-black earth. 
They could see the moist, torn edge of the storm-cloud 
trailing across the gold, and the shadow advancing, 
catching another field, another hedge. A drop of rain 
fell on Simonne’s forehead. 

“ And all the time the sun shines/' she said. 

There came a smell of rain ; the sheep in the pens 
started bleating, but happily; and far beyond the 
storm the yellow light glistened, pale primrose colour 
mixed with gold. The landscape shimmered, appeared 
to sway under the weight of its shadows, fields broke 
and ran, the whole world rippled like a fresh wet pool, 
and the vicar’s heart flowed with it. He thought of 
his wife, his church, his years of service, and they 
seemed as unstable as the surface of the changing 
fields ; he felt an ignorance that was happy as a school¬ 
boy’s hunger : if he lived for ever he could never know 
—but life would be a miracle, pursued. 

Then the rain swept over them, they had to huddle 
under one umbrella, Simonne trying to protect little 
Claude, Hilda thrusting out her wet, flushed face, 
shouting with ecstasy : 

“ Oh ! oh ! the sky ! Uncle, look, it’s black ! ” 

The wind caught their shoulders and whipped their 
legs, and in a moment raced ahead ; the water pouring 
on them softened, thinned, blew away; the golden 
light they had watched blazed clear about their dripping 
figures ; their faces shone pale yellow, dazzled ; and 
the young grass at their feet seemed to melt with love. 

The storm was bursting over Hartake now. 


126 


TANTALUS 


“ I must go straight in with Claude/' said Simonne. 
The vicar walked by her still; he would not think, he 
looked simply at each tree, lamp-post, house, as it came 
in sight, and smiled. He was glad to find the house 
empty when he got in, he could sit and smile a little 
longer in his study quite frankly, not romantically, 
simply with a sense of life that made the dark walls 
round him flimsy. 

But when a lot of people arrived at six o’clock and 
he heard his wife say “ Hush ! the vicar’s busy ! ” 
an undefined impulse made him jump up and fling 
his door open, saying breezily : 

“No, no !—doing nothing ! ’’ 

He saw his hall full of ladies in mackintoshes, all very 
wet and draggled, and giving off a smell of moss. Miss 
Wurrell was saying : 

“ Well, I do hope he will like that altar screen of 
white narcissi! ’’ 

A guilty feeling touched him; they had been 
decorating, and for the first time in his life he had 
forgotten to look in on them. 

“ Miss Cantyre sent a lot of orchids,’’ his wife kept 
telling him. 

“ You know, I don’t like Miss Gale’s window,’’ Mrs. 
Clutterbuck was shouting to somebody else. 

In the dining-room a poor fire burned badly; the 
walls were dark already, but the ladies’ faces glowed 
like autumn leaves. Plates of thick, greyish bread 
and margarine were devoured, a large cake made with 
dates instead of sugar was passed round. His wife, 
perhaps, had thought of God while she worked in the 
cold, damp church; she looked happy and tired, her 


TANTALUS 


127 

eyes serene. Miss Bostock’s eyes bit everything they 
glanced at. 

“ I can’t bear the way Mrs, Wilson does the font/’ 
she told him, “it’s stuffy like herself ! When do your 
girls arrive ? Next week ? ” 

Then Simonne and the children came in. Her dark- 
blue blouse gave her body a flying look ; her cheeks 
were brightly coloured, but not roughly, her black hair 
shone. She was outside the circle of life that held these 
ladies, the children were outside it; the moaning 
boughs of the cedar tree, the stars beyond the clouds, 
were all outside it. Looking at her, and then at Mrs. 
Clutterbuck, Daniel felt with all his soul that he was 
outside it too ; and yet: 

“ Will you come and give mother the sacrament ? ” 
Miss Wurrell was asking him. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Of all Church festivals, Easter was the one that Mrs. 
Jennifer liked best. At Christmas her good face wore 
an indulgent look, the infant Jesus in the manger was 
a homely, pious thought; but at Easter her eyes had 
a fervent light. Had she not since Advent and the 
beginning of Lent, for years and years, been quietly 
preparing heart and soul for Easter ? Matilda Campion 
wasn’t one of those who give up some little thing like 
sugar, and think no more about it, she gave up 
what she liked best. And each time the pull came 
pain and joy mingled, and formed another step in that 
ascent towards Easter. But her ascent had never 
been softened by aesthetic pleasure, the little church 
of her girlhood was a cold, stony one. 

She had been brought up on the Thirty-nine Articles, 
and when she went to the Communion service it was 
as one who obeys a command. She would have been 
deeply shocked in any church where the Lord’s Supper 
was “ carried about, lifted up, or worshipped.” She 
believed with absolute conviction that “ in such as 
worthily receive the same they have a wholesome effect 
or operation ...” 

In some obscure way she felt more “ worthy ” at 
Easter, having suffered so on Good Friday. But 
something older than this got even into Mrs. Jennifer’s 
safe heart; a certain abandonment and longing to fly 

128 


TANTALUS 


129 


higher, the longing which made Pagans dance. For 
this service comes in springtime, it carries on the 
offering of beauty unto Beauty. 

Mrs. Jennifer woke early on Easter morning, and 
while her husband was dressing made a secret visit to 
her son’s room ; ever since he had joined the army she 
had done this, to kneel by his bed. She prayed God to 
guard him, and above all to keep him pure. Young 
men would be young men, she knew, but she knew, too, 
that he was “ safe.” 

Sitting on this narrow bed she looked at a framed 
photograph—her husband ten years ago (very little 
changed) ; herself, her daughter (Thelma in a pinafore), 
and Clement, a schoolboy in flannels. How quickly 
children grew up. And in these days it was hard to get 
them together, and Thelma’s school was breaking up late. 

Mrs. Jennifer hurried to church. She would not greet 
her garden until she had thanked her God. 

This Sunday, especially, she felt “ we are getting on ! 
We’ve never had so many people, the dear soldiers-” 

Her husband’s face was striking, so impersonal and 
grave. It was to be another of these solemn Easters 
which had grown up lately. She was aware of the 
vicar placing a little square of bread in Mrs. Clutter- 
buck’s fat palms, stooping over her sealskin-covered 
bosom and murmuring close to her hard face : “ The 

body of our Lord Jesus Christ-” Mrs. Jennifer 

prayed long and earnestly that God in His own time 
might make her good. She prayed for her whole 
family, and for herself more patience, more devotion, 
strength to see nothing but God anywhere. Sunbeams 
fell across her neck, a very old, dear sense of piety 


130 


TANTALUS 


moistened her eyes. When she received the cup she 
felt more love for Christ, and yet more love ; the Christ 
who had been a human son, who had suffered and died 
for her, and who entered her this way. 

Row after row followed each other along the altar 
rails, a line of flowers level with their breasts ; each 
comer darting, secretly, a look at the altar lilies. Row 
after row of strange faces, the people who came once a 
year for safety (Mrs. Jennifer sometimes thought that 
they tried to be saved too easily). 

On her return from church she visited her green¬ 
house, hovering over each old plant with a happy, self- 
forgetful face, nipping off dead blossom, feeling the soil 
round the tomatoes ; then explored her garden with 
its low box hedges and espalier fruit trees, its daffodils 
and scillas ; she was one of those women who cannot 
pick their flowers. 

At eleven o’clock she went to church again, taking 
the children this time. The sun shone, drawing out 
the scent of lilies ; the organist surpassed himself ; the 
elite of Hartake were there in new frocks and hats, 
giving the whole an ebullient affluent look. 

The vicar, stately and paler than usual, manifested 
that fine command of his, pausing before he began his 
sermon, fixing them until each lady forgot everything 
except herself and himself. Then he gave them the 
words : 

“ What reward shall I give unto the Lord for all the 
benefits that He hath done unto me ? 

“ I will receive the cup of salvation.” 

There followed an address calculated to make people 
stay to the second service. 


TANTALUS 


131 

But when Daniel was alone in the vestry again he 
sat head in hand, in a weary, uneasy attitude, as it 
might be some old actor waiting for his cue. And it 
came, the bell ceased, he had the old folk of his parish, 
and once more he stood with the silver chalice in his 
hand, and in his nostrils the bittersweet aroma of the 
sacramental wine. 

At the afternoon Sunday-school service he asked : 

“ Do any of you boys know what temptation is ? " 

And some of the little boys said : “Yes, sir." And 
some said : “ No, sir." Not according to experience, 
but as they thought they were expected to answer. 

“ Have you ever wanted to play truant ? You know 
the little home temptations, eh ? How many of you 
have stuck your finger in the jam-pot ? But have you 
ever thought that it’s dishonest ? That you are 
robbing mother, father, sisters ? No, you only think 
how clever you were to discover it, and how nice and 
sweet it was ! How should we get on if all did that ? 
No, my dear lads, believe me, we have to resist . . . 
Temptation," he said so seriously that the boys forgot 
to gape at their Bibles, and at the old picture of Abra¬ 
ham holding a knife over Isaac, fixing him instead 
with round eyes. 

“ All glory, laud and honour," roared the class in the 
next room. 

“ What’s the time ? " Daniel asked the assistant 
teacher. 

A girl wearing a flowery blouse and a pink hat 
trimmed with cherries came forward to the harmonium. 
The vicar turned to his class : 

“ What shall we have, boys ? You choose." 


K 2 


132 


TANTALUS 


“ Yes sir ‘ We know Thee ’oo Thou art ’ 181.” 

Once at home and alone again, Daniel could not rest; 
the thought struck him, “ It would have been better if 
she had caught that train ! Why did I stop her ? ” 

Why do leaves fly when the wind chases them ? 
Why do fires burn when they feel the bellows ? Stand¬ 
ing alone it seemed to Daniel that Age and Youth both 
nipped him violently. That cold, craven, careful thing 
was age, afraid of novelty, half yearning to be safe and 
settled in the rut again ; and this fast-growing creature 
(like a beanstalk in him), leaping to the air and light, 
was Youth ? 

But it grew too fast, thought and judgment trailed 
behind, and he wondered then how long it had been 
working in him. He had felt young in March. A quick 
conviction came that he was not so old ; if the top of 
his head had not been a little bald no one would guess ! 
He walked uprightly, was full of spirit; he could prove 
he was not old. What had she said yesterday ? 
“ There’s something else than Youth and Age.” 

Without examining it, there dawned in him a queer 
defrauded feeling, had he not, while very young, been 
joined to something very old, and kept at its slow pace ? 
His age was not exhaustion—but suppression ! His 
efforts to be a “ character ” among the cloth—just 
native exuberance! And now this rather pressed-in, 
hedged exuberance had found a vent. It had leaped 
out in a kiss, it had looked out at the station. It could 
do things, it could do things ! 

Trembling a little, he sat down in his study. 

But when he tried to pray all thought and power 
of defining things evaporated; he was too tired, the 


TANTALUS 


133 


services he had held all day echoed meaninglessly in 
his soul; if he could rest a little ! but the bells began 
to ring for evening service. 

Walking home again at twilight, with that sense of 
life being secretly unlocked, that laving of a stale day 
in the breath of evening, he thought: “ Can I prevent 
her going ? ” And this seemed natural, not wrong ; 
as it is natural to want life, not death. 

“ What a good Easter ! ” Mrs. Jennifer said to him 
in bed. 

“ Fine, fine,” his mechanical answer. 

“ The people are so kind about sending flowers, 
they’re so fond of you, dear ” ; and, lowering her voice : 
“ Was it a good collection ? ” 

Monday was a hard day for Daniel; to his dismay he 
had dreamed a very intimate dream. In his dressing- 
room the thought crossed his mind—had he really much 
self-control ? Seriously there were bounds to a thing ; 
his dream had been very intimate. But the shocked 
feeling left him at breakfast. Had she dreamed too ? 
She was silent. She seemed so happy, as if some one 
had given her a present ! One might as well be shocked 
at sight of sunshine on a fresh spring day ! 

Breakfast over, he sighed, and looked at his notes : 
“ Communion—Mrs. Wurrell. Two weddings : soldiers, 
Wilfred Jeffries of this Parish, and Pearl Irene Hopkins 
of the Parish of Shoreditch, London. Sergeant East- 
wood and Isabella Codd (Brighton). Mothers’ Meeting 
at the Vicarage. Visiting: Mrs. Lundy (Bosworth 
Road), Mrs. Beal (‘ The Crescent ’), Geddings, Jacobs 
and Green (the Almshouse). Evening : Parish Con¬ 
cert ! ” 


I 34 


TANTALUS 


Old Mrs. Wurrell got up an hour earlier on these 
occasions, the servant maids were scolded, the cat 
chased out, the dog tied up ; and there came the 
difficult question : who was to share the service with 
her ? Only Laura had refrained from going to church, 
and when the Bible said “ two or three . . . So the 
housemaid was called in, and being an amiable girl, 
said : “ Yes,” in a half-scared voice. 

Mrs. Wurrell folded her hands before the vicar came 
in, then something struck her : Emmie had put the 
wrong cloth on the tea-table. 

“ It's the wrong cloth ! ’’ she articulated. 

“ Sh ! he's coming," said Laura. 

“ Quick ! ” commanded Mrs. Wurrell. 

“ Be quiet, mother ! " 

“ Mary ! ” 

The housemaid was held firmly down by Laura, and 
Jennifer entered. 

The vicar always took this little service gravely, 
liking to give his old people the “ real thing ” if he 
could ; and Mrs. Wurrell was always overcome by 
thoughts of her dead husband, and her nose beginning 
to run could never find her handkerchief, so that there 
was an undercurrent of rustlings, and breathings, and 
things hastily transferred, while the vicar blessed the 
air above them silently. 

Afterwards he had to hurry away, and at twelve 
o’clock, in an empty church, he married Pearl Irene 
Hopkins and Wilfred Jeffries. Pearl Irene wore pink 
coral earrings, and on her hat a bird whose colours 
never rested still an instant. To Daniel, whose nerves 
were on edge, there was something offensive about the 


TANTALUS 


135 


bride’s emotion, no old-fashioned sentimental tears, 
but life ! and a heart so full of passionate excitement 
that every pulse shook that iridescent humming-bird. 

Jeffries, a young man with an open, beefsteak face, 
breathed loudly too. It occurred to the vicar that 
there was something dangerous in so much emotion, 
that this young couple were a little mad, that he 
himself—well, he felt shaken by Pearl Irene’s short, 
full sighs. 

“ And these twain shall be one flesh ...” And 
there was Pearl Irene in the middle of the service, 
saying : “ Thank you, sir ! ” 

Ten minutes later he faced a different couple : East- 
wood, a comical-looking Canadian who, at the words : 
“ With this body I thee worship,” winked at him over 
the bride’s head ! And Isabella, one of those long, 
thin, flat-chested girls with brown hair gummed in a 
loop on her cheek, and blue-brown eyes, beautiful, but 
a little lost looking in their prominent vacuity. There 
were hollows under them, and lines on her sallow face. 

An anxious, desperate bride. 

“ If only-” thought Daniel; if only he could get 

away and rest! But at the Almshouse old men kept 
him, grumbling to him : “ Lord ’a mercy ! ” “ It’s 

the end o’ th’ world ! ” 

“ No, no,” smiled the vicar, “ we shall win to a better 

time, all hearts made new-” and became aware of 

old, filmy eyes looking askew upon him : “ No, no ! ” 
they seemed saying. “ You’m Parson, you won’t 
change! ” 

“ Change,” he muttered to himself outside, " we’re 
bound to change, the whole world’s changing, we—the 



TANTALUS 


136 

Church-” a touch of giddiness made him step in to 

rest at Mrs. Clutterbuck’s. 

Sitting in her solid dining-room near a table covered 
with a green velvet broche cloth surmounted by a red 
azalea, he laughed at himself while the Clutterbuck 
girls looked adoringly at him, and Mrs. Clutterbuck 
gave him some barley water. 

“ Kind, kind/' he thought, “ but what an old tame 
cat I'm becoming ! ” 

It is the intangible which wrecks a house, rooms are 
so avid of sensation, they seize and hold it until an 
“ atmosphere ” emerges capturing those who first 
created it. Daniel might come to tea chivalrous, 
smelling slightly of soap, separate and safe as an 
individual, but the edge of the sideboard brought back 
breakfast, the walls were not changed, chairs stood as 
they were left full of secret vibration; the cake made 
him cough, his pulse beat so at tea-time. Would the 
meal never end ? Would she look at him ? In his 
study he could smile, if they met in the hall he was 
powerless. 

Jennifer had always maintained that men who gave 
rein to their passions were weak, “ something wrong at 
the roots ! ” 

He often preached from that fine Epistle of Paul to 
the Corinthians : “So fight I, not as one who beateth 
the air ” ; yet he found himself beating the air in his 
study until anger possessed him. Anger that he, 
Daniel Wheeland Jennifer, father of three children, 
married to a Campion, son of a clergyman, a clergyman 
himself, could feel desire ! 

Habit in him shouted to authority, and authority 


TANTALUS 


137 


waited on habit; he made new resolutions, finding 
hard words for recent dissatisfactions, blaming himself 
remorsely for “ uneasiness/' for queer moments when 
he had disliked his own front door. He called these 
warnings “ sins," but there was no religion in his mood, 
only a fighter's soreness. It was crumbling conceit 
which vexed his blood, and the victim was not Simonne, 
or Sin exactly, but some deeply uneasy personal thing. 
When he called himself “ fool! " it was this rebellious¬ 
ness he was accusing, when he squeezed up his fist it 
was to smash this hidden disturbance. He must 
fight, fight. 


CHAPTER XIX 


The Town Hall at Hartake had been built by sub¬ 
scription as a patriotic memorial of Queen Victoria's 
Diamond Jubilee ; like the new station it was still 
“ too big for the place." A “ handsome building " (of 
red brick with yellow facings) selected by the Parish 
Council, it had been distempered blue inside which 
made it hard to light, but it had a platform, a dark 
green “ drop " curtain, and a small ante-room for 
performers. There was, of course, a coloured print of 
the old queen, profile, with a very bright blue ribband 
on her breast: also photographs of the bishop, the 
dean of Travisham, Daniel, and the church. 

Simonne had never seen such a place; she arrived 
there early on Monday night with Mrs. Jennifer and 
Hilda (who was to dance a hornpipe), and was told to 
wait in the “ green-room." There she found the other 
performers. Miss Minnie Wurrell who ran about in 
mittens as “ Miss Milliken," the Governess in “ The 
Backward Child " ; the Backward Child herself, Julia 
Clutterbuck, one of those dear good girls of forty who 
work hard, and help with everything, (she had her 
dark hair down to-night, and wore a pinafore) ; Miss 
Emmie Wurrell looking like somebody awaiting a 
surgical operation—she was facing a piano solo 
really. 

Mrs. Jennifer hurried from one to the other, had they 
138 


TANTALUS 


139 

all they wanted ? Were they all there ? No, Miss 
Cantyre had not come. 

Five minutes to the half-hour. Was the hall full ? 
Yes, so many soldiers, and townspeople, of course. Bank 
Holiday. 

There was a sudden alarm because Miss Buckingham 
was missing ; she was accompanying Mrs. Williams. 

“ And whatever I shall do if she doesn’t come, I don’t 
know ! ” exclaimed that lady; it was so awkward to 
have your songs played at the last moment by some¬ 
body who didn’t know you. But Miss Buckingham 
arrived, with that rather sarcastic look accompanists 
so often wear. 

Several ladies questioned the French girl: “ What’s 
your number on the programme ? ” “ Let me see : 

Chopin’s ' Fantasie Impromptu/ really ? ” 

They could see that she did not want to talk, so felt, 
being kind-hearted, that they must make her. 

At two minutes to the half-hour Jennifer looked in. 

“ All there ? That’s right. Beal will ring the bell; 
let the first performer be ready.” 

He stood in the doorway and faced them, looking 
from one to the other, his eyes lingering over Hilda who, 
not knowing quite how to carry off her smart new 
sailor suit, was slipping her hand into Simonne’s ; he 
watched the French girl kiss her, “ Ah ! ” he thought, 
“ You’re lucky, Hilda ! ” 

“ We can’t begin before Miss Cantyre comes,” Mrs. 
Jennifer was whispering. 

“ She is sitting in front,” said the vicar. 

When wind passes over a flock of chickens you see 
their feathers fluff out; but when this little breeze is 


140 


TANTALUS 


connected with an “ Honourable ” as blue-blooded as 
the Honourable Gwendolin Cantyre it soon subsides ; 
it has to. 

During the few moments occupied by the vicar’s 
opening address, Mrs. Williams began to pant; Simonne 
settled her flowers more firmly, white narcissi at the 
neck of her little black frock. 

When the stage bell rang every one jumped, every 
one forgot for an instant what came first! Then 
remembered that it was a song from Miss Cantyre ; by 
pushing each other at the green-room door Miss Minnie, 
and the eldest “ Clutterbuck girl,” flanked by Mrs. 
Williams on tiptoe, and by Mrs. Jennifer, were able to 
watch the casual ease with which Miss Cantyre threw 
off her opera cloak : “ just as if there was nobody 
there ! ” and then at the appropriate moment, stepped 
on to the stage. 

Miss Cantyre wore dresses as low as she liked, and if 
it made one shiver that only added to her lustre. Very 
fine she looked, facing a mass of plebeians, her clear 
green eyes unaware of a single thing except the fact of 
Gwendolin Cantyre. 

Her accompanist ran over a little prelude, and the 
performer’s clear “ finished ” voice could be heard 
rolling round the roof ; a French song by a new man. 
The ladies of Hartake were all on pins and needles. 
Miss Cantyre sang out of tune sometimes, so, of course, 
one listened ! 

She was followed by a recitation from Mrs. Verral. 

“ Nothing in it, you know—but how it made me 
laugh ! ” being the verdict. Then it was Miss Wurrell’s 
turn ; she, poor woman, in a fashionable crepe de chine 


TANTALUS 


141 

dress of a pale smoke colour, with a dreadful, livid face 
and beating heart, attacked Rachmaninoff’s “ Prelude,” 
and delivered it like a summons on a kettledrum. 

Miss Gale, in white, with an artificial rose at her 
breast, played the only violin piece, swaying a good 
deal, and looking stormily at the audience ; she could 
not play in public, and she knew it: there came the 
inevitable “ scrape,” and as inevitably her acquaint¬ 
ances lowered their eyes ; at this moment she longed 
to kill them all. 

There was little ease, and no music, about concerts at 
Hartake. 

Mrs. Clutterbuck’s niece, Miss Hastings, who was 
“ almost a professional,” came down from Town with 
a yellow leather suit-case and a satchel. She was 
really a piece de resistance, a woman of eight and thirty 
with frizzy yellow hair, pale eyes, and very often a 
scarlet frock. She had such “ command ” of the piano ; 
she played so fast that your heart stood still! She 
always desired to eclipse Miss Cantyre, and never 
could. After one of her flying cascades on the piano, 
and a fiery, effective exit, Miss Cantyre would rise to 
the occasion colder and more serene than ever. 

Miss Cantyre was two inches taller, she wore family 
jewels, and the footlights sported with her long front 
teeth which were always moist, and which glistened ; 
teeth that bit continually the softer fruits of life, and 
withdrew themselves with a faint " aw ! ” 

The next item was a Skye boat-song “ adapted for 
concert purposes ” by the organist, and sung by the 
Misses Clutterbuck; the whole resembling a shy attempt 
to blow about a bit of thistledown in public. With the 


142 


TANTALUS 


last word the Misses Clutterbuck, magenta coloured, 
with moist brows and heaving lungs, fell down the 
steps on top of each other, pursued by tremendous 
applause because they were “ such dear, good girls/' 

No interest was felt about the following name on the 
programme for it was a stranger’s, and what did the 
people of Hartake care for anything but themselves ? 

If Simonne had felt rather cold and nervous in the 
green-room, she crossed the stage smiling, inwardly 
full of a feeling that to fail was impossible. Daniel 
she located with half a glance in the second row, Mrs. 
Jennifer beside him, Mrs. Wilson in front, and next to 
Mrs. Wilson, Miss Cantyre, yawning; and as roses 
sparkle suddenly through a storm of rain and sun, 
Simonne’s spirit flew into her music. Her cheeks 
burned, the footlights shone on her slim body, gaslight 
and candlelight shone on her hair, her own spirit shone 
through that “ Fantasie Impromptu.” 

The better educated forgot the great word “ tech¬ 
nique ” ; the working people, who had never heard it, 
stuck their hands beneath their legs and pinched them¬ 
selves. Daniel felt a new, delightful pride ; she had 
eclipsed Miss Cantyre ! 

Competition was so common among performers at 
Hartake, and he, as vicar, so used to it, that it really 
appeared as a battle to him. But when she was asked 
to play again his heart turned over queerly, it was the 
piece she had played the other night, the night before 
he kissed her. And he thought : “If she had never 
played that, if Tilly had never talked about her, if I had 
never gone into the garden—perhaps nothing would 
have happened ! ” 


TANTALUS 


143 

Simonne’s contribution being ended she was beckoned 
to a chair which had been kept for her by Mrs. Jennifer. 

“ Quite a performah ! ” drawled Miss Cantyre with 
a smile which said “ good dog, well done ! ” 

But Mrs. Jennifer, deeply moved, kept squeezing the 
girl’s hand. 

All the parish was exclaiming “ She really is good ! ” 
they felt they could mention it without injuring Miss 
Wurrell or Miss Hastings, because Mademoiselle Dubois 
was a “ foreigner,” and they would not meet her 
to-morrow at tea. 

“ French and Russians,” they told each other, “ oh ! 
and Scandinavians—they’ve got quite a knack with 
the piano.” 

The hall was darkened for the dialogue. Simonne 
heard Mrs. Clutterbuck ask : 

“ And when are the girls coming home ? ” 

The answer was lost among other whispers, but 
Simonne knew it, the girls were expected next day, 
Thelma was to join Margaret at Victoria, it had been 
talked about by Mrs. Jennifer incessantly; but now, 
in the darkened hall, this home-coming assumed new 
proportions. Simonne thought of the vicar’s daughters, 
Margaret, aged twenty-one, Thelma, seventeen ; they 
would arrive, full of life and curiosity about her ? They 
would look at her, and she, who had now so much to 
hide, would have to look at them. They, perhaps, were 
heart-whole, but she had given her’s. She knew it 
then in the little hush before the curtain rose, it helped 
somehow. A queer bending of the head and lifting of 
the spirit different, quite, to that hour in Margaret’s 
bedroom. She had no wish to see her face or to laugh 


144 


TANTALUS 


at her own eyes, no sudden wish to clasp herself and 
dance ; but a feeling rather as if initiative had left her, 
as if she could never again speak as she had spoken, 
never again lead life, but must wait upon it. Through¬ 
out the dialogue between Miss Wurrell and Miss Clutter- 
buck she sat with closed eyes. To think of love ever 
leaving off was impossible, even her departure on 
Saturday seemed outside existence. And monsieur’s 
manner to her to-day, his new reserve—meant nothing. 
There was a vast eternity into which she, Simonne 
Dubois, had tumbled, and it was made up of three 
words : “I love him.” 

When the clapping had ceased at the close of the 
dialogue, and the curtain had run down, and the lights 
had been turned up again, she had to hurry home to 
put Hilda to bed ; the vicar had to stay and lock up, 
but she did not care. She could not look at him just 
then, she would be with him now more truly when he 
was not there ! 

Alone in bed in the dark, stifling all words and 
expression of feeling, then she could feel that her heart 
was gone ; there was even peace instead of it. 


CHAPTER XX 


Among the audience at the concert that night was 
Sergeant Eastwood. He had enjoyed himself, the 
music affecting him so pleasantly that he managed to 
escape his bride and leave the Parish Room alone. 
Many lovers loafed outside ; Eastwood looked about 
for company. The night was dark, lamps were dim, 
he avoided obvious roads ; there ahead of him a female 
figure turned down Blacksmith Lane. Blacksmith 
Lane runs past the forge ; it is one of the old bits of 
Hartake “ Village ” ; no lamp shone on its cobbled 
flint, few people walk there. It was just the place for 
a sentimental moment. Eastwood went warily, skirt¬ 
ing the wall, keeping the figure in sight ahead. Having 
made sure that he was not followed he shuffled up 
nearer, and said “ Good-night/' 

“ Good-night/’ It wasn’t a servant’s voice, but 
Eastwood only winked to himself ; new game was good 
game sometimes. 

“ Been to the show ? ” he asked, and receiving no 
answer tried hard to look into the walker’s face; her 
pace quickened, so did his breathing, and in the dark 
his chapped red lips smiled wider. 

“ I guess you’re fond of music, miss ? ” To cut 
matters short he slipped an arm round her waist, a 
good firm waist; he could feel, with pleasure, the little 
pulse of agitation he had caused, 
x. 145 L 


TANTALUS 


146 

“ I like a nice girl! ” he told her in a voice half- 
whisper, half-sigh, down her neck. 

“ Let go ! ” she was saying, “ let go, let go ! ” She 
had nothing of the Brighton-London night girl’s blase 
tone, her confusion was delicious, like the taste of a new 
dish, and the sergeant pressed close. He hardly 
listened to her words, or knew their meaning; his 
brain was dazed, only his senses were awake. And all 
the time her shocked, stuttering, stammering speech 
ran on in little jerks, as though pumped out of 
her: 

. . it’s not . . . I’m not . . . you’re not . . . 
our English girls are not ... No self-respecting 
English girl . . . it’s not . . . not self-respecting ...” 
but she didn’t try to slap his face, or shout at him ; 
she only pulled against his arm, and that brought her 
bosom closer, and made their hearts beat more. When 
she said : “ God sees you ”—-he jerked his thumb into 
her ribs, that made her hot, he knew in the dark ! he 
could feel the steam on her cheek ! 

“ Wicked ! ” she gasped. 

Wicked ! Gor Blimy ! he wanted to chuckle, but 
kissed her instead ; then saw it was Mrs. Jennifer. 

Eastwood’s comical face expressed horror, panic, 
dismay, and a sort of rueful disgust, he ducked his head 
and bolted. 

When Daniel left the Parish Room his mind was still 
buzzing with all the suave " good-nights ” and “ thank 
you’s ” he had been obliged to make. His ladies had 
looked at him approvingly, the whole affair had been 
'* a great success.” Mrs. Bigthorn had stopped to say : 
“ Talented girl, that little governess ! tell your wife to 


TANTALUS 


147 


bring her to tea one day ! ” And with great self- 
satisfaction she had nodded, each movement shaking 
her full red throat while her prominent eyes approved 
the vicar. A satisfactory man, successful! Had she 
not given £5 to the Easter collection ? She, and those 
others, Miss Can tyre (who had given £20), and old 
Mrs. Wurrell who had sent £10, not to mention a host 
of poor spinsters with their sovereigns and half- 
sovereigns—had they not a right to smile at him a little 
tenderly that night ? The very silence of the Easter 
gift increased its weight, but as a “ fact accomplished ” 
it looked through all their eyes, and perforce through 
his. So many hands he had to press with a little extra 
pressure at the door that night! Delicately, intimately 
these things are done ; it was a relief to get outside 
again. Only the riff-raff were loitering about, and a few 
late lovers, two drunken men (one carried frog fashion 
back to camp). The dark fresh night came like a kind 
hand smoothing the smile off the vicar’s face. It is 
merciful to look as one feels in the dark, it makes a little 
escape for the heart; muscles may work and eyes may 
stare while what was pressed under creeps out to the 
night ... “I would give my whole past,” the vicar 
thought; his whole past for what ? One year of 
young, free life ! Here, in the dark, was his gate again, 
and that inexpressibly damp, mushroom smell which 
oozed at night from his garden. 

He was surprised to find Tilly sitting in her hat and 
coat. 

“ Oh, Daniel! ” she exclaimed at once. 

“ What’s happened ? ” he asked, she looked as if 
she’d found the house on fire ! 


TANTALUS 


148 

“ A soldier ! he spoke to me—he thought, in the 
dark . . . ! ” she blushed and stammered. 

“ Well, well ? ” 

“ He thought-” Mrs. Jennifer’s face quivered 

suddenly, “. . . I told him our girls aren’t accus¬ 
tomed . . . that he mustn’t, that no, no self-respecting 
. . . then he kissed me.” 

“ The brute ! ” 

Mrs. Jennifer twisted her hands : “ When he saw me 
he ran away ! ” 

For the life of him Daniel could not help smiling 
suddenly ; then with mixed feelings of shame, irritation, 
guilt, he saw his wife crying. One after another the 
tears rolled down her cheeks ; he understood that she 
had expected him to clench his fists. He knew, too, 
that she was far too single-minded to have imagined 
anything, she was only now discovering her expectation! 

“ There, there-” he kissed her hand. 

“ Oh, Dan ! ” she flung her arms right round his 
neck : “ You do love me ? ” 

“ Of course I love you ; now, what’s this ? ” 

“ I don’t know, I don’t know.” 

“ You’re tired out slaving for that precious con¬ 
cert . . .” 

“ Kiss me, Dan ! ” 

“ The soldier’s gone to your head ! ” he laughed ; 
something in him kept whispering : “ keep it light! ” 
He joked all the way upstairs. 

Only in his dressing-room he could feel how his 
courage had sunk. Tilly, poor soul, had discovered 
the passage of Time ; and now life would be quickened 
for her ? Hard thought, unpalatable. He realised 


TANTALUS 


149 


that her long-standing self-forgetfulness had been a bit 
of a blessing ! And all the while another consciousness 
continued softy pulsing in him, another presence, 
another face. 

Well! if you couldn’t help your private feelings there 
was such a thing as conduct, and the sharper your 
feelings the stronger your line of action, forcing you 
into a coldness of manner, a pretence abstraction at 
the breakfast table, an expression fit for a bishop ; and 
one sharp look—but she seemed shut in some dream of 
her own, that girl with the half-closed eyes. How 
bitter this cheap tea tasted. And they were still 
eating fish-cakes (remains of the cod). And Tilly still 
had flushed cheeks, a startled look. What was she 
asking ? His “ notes for the day ” ? What was that 
scent ? The window was open, the breath of some 
flower kept stealing in ; what was she thinking ? And 
over his letters he stealthily looked at the girl. 

In his study, sitting very still, he debated the present 
possibility and impossibility of going to the schoolroom ; 
saying to himself, “ It will be just the same ! ” But in 
the old days (a week ago) he used to walk in smiling 
gaily, touch the governess on her shoulder or even 
brush her cheek with his finger, crying: “Well, 
Pussy ? ” and sitting down among the children laugh 
at her between their faces. On Tuesday morning he 
merely wandered round, met two full, tender, gold- 
brown eyes and hurried out again. 

His head was burning, his eyes glistened ; hearing 
Hilda shout : " Uncle ! ” he turned and ran. 

Back in his study an April shower had darkened the 
room, he found a tall, thin girl staring at the rain. 


TANTALUS 


150 

Hearing him she turned, and he saw an anaemic face, 
the short nose freckled between the eyes, and the eyes 
themselves pale and watery, restless as some driven 
river. He saw fair hair damaged by the weather, and 
a cheap green hat, a lean body in a ready-made coat 
and shirt, and round a very cold-looking naked neck a 
string of cheap white pearls. 

“ Yes ? ” he asked crisply ; he had had so many of 
these desperate sweethearts lately. 

“ I’ve come about a licence,” she began ; “ he can’t, 
so I’ve come. We want it at once ! ” 

“ How soon is your young friend off ? ” 

“ On Thursday.” 

“ Are you wise to rush into this ? ” The vicar was 
beginning his usual homily, but his eyes being caught 
by the young woman’s he was held speechless. This 
poor pale specimen of a shop-girl was breathing some¬ 
thing sharper than mere sentiment, her eyes were frantic. 
“I’ve struggled for him! ” those swimming blue-green 
eyes declared, “I’ve got him now from other girls! He’s 
promised—in a day or two he’ll be mine for ever.” 

“ There, there,” whispered the vicar. “You know 
all about him, of course ? ” 

Her impatient smile showed that knowledge was 
nothing; he might have six wives, she didn’t care. 
“ Be careful,” Daniel tried to say. 

“ You’ll give it ? ” she answered. And while he 
wrote her name and his, two tears rolled down her 
hollow cheeks, her pale lips moved, her eyes swam ; a 
river stilled by passing light will seem to rest upon 
itself, but soon it is running, chasing forward, spilling 
its spirit a hundred ways, driven, restless, hungry. 


TANTALUS 


151 

“ What is this force ? ” asked Daniel when the girl 
was gone. “ Is it contagious ? ” 

At three o’clock he had not gone out. Hilda had 
hung back from the afternoon walk, pouting, and 
looking reproachfully at him ; at the bend by the holly 
tree Simonne had smiled, his pulse had leaped. 

In three days she would be gone. An abominable 
weight seemed to sit on his chest, his heart thumped, 
his cheek burned while his perception of life quickened ! 

What made him cast those swift looks at the ilex 
with its silvery buds, at the larch tree with its tips of 
green ? A smell of turpentine was drifting in, and the 
scent of sun-warmed pansies ; the air was full of steamy 
sweetness. What a row the birds kept making ! And 
in this room of his, what shabbiness, what ugliness ! 
What bald, bleak age ! 

“ There’s something else than Youth and Age,” she 
had said, that something else worked in him now. To 
escape it could he pray ? He did not want to. For so 
many years he had shut his eyes and with a particular, 
other-worldly smile had escaped suffering ; he had done 
it when his sister lost her husband, and when bishops 
passed him over, when he left his dear old London 
parish, and when his mother died. 

Perhaps he was a little hard on his prayers at this 
moment. He felt like a man awakened from long 
sleep ; life was acute, sharp edged, full of undreamed¬ 
of poignancies ; he would not lose this brilliant, aching 
life whatever it might cost in pain, for when he could 
or dared no longer keep it he would be old. 

As in May sometimes, while the sun is burning, a 
little shower will steal from a cloud frail and small as 


152 


TANTALUS 


a butterfly’s wing ! So tenderness stole upon Daniel 
with the thought of her smile. 

“ A girlish mood,” he tried to call it, and forgot 
himself, sitting head bent, lips smiling, dark brown eyes 
half closed. He had forgotten parting too. There 
came an unknown feeling as of many doors being 
opened in his spirit, and through each one a stream of 
love, not passion, but most gentle, humble love, so 
humble that ... A new fact blocked out everything— 
he had lost the power of being shocked. 

“ Uncle Dan ! ” the children’s voices. There are 
queer moments when the heart leaps and then seems 
to run like a hare ! She had seen his confusion, over 
the sill she was smiling at him, standing in the April 
sun, the children with her, Hilda’s bright face laughing. 

“ I’ve been asleep,” said Daniel. But Fan, putting 
her paws on the sill, thrust her sleek head into the 
room and sniffed the atmosphere doubtfully : “ Queer 
dreams ! ” her wrinkled nose seemed saying, and all at 
once she barked. 


CHAPTER XXI 


That afternoon Simonne moved her things. 

“ If you don’t mind ? ” Mrs. Jennifer had said, “such 
a few nights ! still, the dear girl likes to come home to 
her own room.” 

“ I've had some strange times here,” the governess 
told herself, looking at Margaret’s bed, “ my first 
unhappiness and now—a miracle ! What will happen 
in the spare room ? ” She was quite ready to go into 
the new room as if it were a step onwards, and when 
she had picked flowers for it she walked all round it 
curiously. The spare room smelt of camphor. Its 
yellow paper was stained with mildew, long brown 
streaks clung to the wall like worms below the window. 
Simonne looked at the four-post bed with its faded 
curtains which had been green and purple, and a sense 
of pity for Mrs. Jennifer came over her ; she could not 
feel that she was robbing her, Mrs. Jennifer’s romance 
was safe, she understood, put away for ever in dried 
lavender. 

“ She has put away passion like a silk dress,” mused 
the girl; “for my part, I will never put away anything. 
I will live in it till the end. Oh, these good people, 
who use glass cases, thinking to keep their treasures for 
ever—they don’t see that so, there is nothing to keep ! ” 

“ The sky is breaking,” Mrs. Jennifer kept saying 
downstairs, and Daniel wished she wouldn’t. 

153 


*54 


TANTALUS 


Mrs. Jennifer always talked when she was excited, 
it was her way of being happy. At four o’clock they 
all took their platform tickets, and waited. Made¬ 
moiselle a little in the background, the vicar with a 
fixed smile. Like many others, Thelma’s school had 
put off breaking-up till after Easter that year, so the 
vicar’s daughters were expected together. When the 
train ran in, two splendid girls stepped out. They were 
easily recognised amongst soldiers and ordinary tired 
looking travellers, one—tall and pale with dark eyes 
which smiled through the rain, the other—like a big, 
pink peony; Daniel was used to feeling proud of his 
girls. 

It was all as of old, they hugged their parents, 
Thelma leaping on them with the vitality of a young 
puppy. Many times they kissed their father; he took 
their hand luggage, questions and answers as to the 
journey followed, while his eyes conveyed to the 
station-master and the first townsman they met the 
fact that he had “ his young ladies home ! ” The 
children ran about, fastening first on to one and then 
on to another of these happy “ grown-ups ” ; Simonne 
called to them sharply in French. 

When the girls wanted to give little shrieks of joy 
they turned to each other, when they wanted to tell 
what they had done they turned to their father. 
Margaret told him that she had had a responsible place 
in a typhoid ward; Thelma, that she was head of the 
hockey team and top of her class in theology; he 
answered : “Well done, my dear ! Good, good ! ” in 
a tone which conveyed a benediction. They told their 
mother the funny little details connected with these 


TANTALUS 


155 


efforts, and they asked their father how the choir was 
getting on ? They asked their mother about their 
friends at Hartake, and their father about his services. 
When the vicarage came in sight they squeezed each 
other's arm. It was all as it had always been except 
that Daniel hurried them along ; but when they came 
through the vicarage gates the girls walked round the 
garden first. “ Never mind the shower! ” they 
shouted. Luggage was dumped in the porch, Simonne 
disappeared to the spare room, and the procession, 
smaller but full of spirits, started for the old back 
garden. 

The vicar followed his wife and daughters, little 
Claude behind him, Hilda at his side, and he suffered. 
It was a half-unconscious pain at first, but it grew ; a 
sense of idiotic futility. When he threw a word into 
that happy chatter it was a banal , useless one. Youth, 
once more, was something on another plane, he could 
not talk to it. 

His girls were quite happy enjoying the first meeting 
with each favourite plant and tree; his wife was 
saying to him : 

“You ought to rest, dear." 

“ Come! tell me everything! ” he cried to his 
daughters, “ everything you’ve done, eh ? ’’ He could 
not have said why he adopted this artificial gaiety when 
he wanted simply to be human ; he had always done 
it. But meanwhile he could look at their fine fresh 
faces, and enjoy their delight; only he wished their 
joy would make them squeeze his arm as they squeezed 
each other’s. 

Now he followed them, frowning, serious, very much 


TANTALUS 


156 

the clergyman, and a weight on their light chatter. 
Thelma bent down to brush her cheek against a dripping 
wallflower and looked shyly at him, as if saying : 
“ Fathers are funny, but I don’t care ! ” and next 
moment a smile like an apology. Last year he had 
accepted this apologetic manner as a compliment, this 
year—but never mind ! last year it had helped his 
feeling of security, now-? 

He was fired with a determination to show his girls 
that he was at least as human as they were, a strange 
state of mind for a clergyman ! But what was he to 
talk about ? When they questioned him they chose 
subjects which they thought would interest him: 
men’s attendance at choir practice, the difficulty about 
bell-ringers, the Bible class, the National Mission, the 
new man at Hyssop, the curate. Their voices were so 
different when they cried to their mother : “ Cousin 
Milly’s engaged ! ” What he wanted to say was some¬ 
thing like this : “ Have you felt your wings yet ? Do 
you know anything yet ? Have your hearts discovered 
themselves ? Do you know how glorious it is to be 
young ? Above all do you know what I’m feeling ? ” 
He managed to say : 

“We all get younger ! ” and as they expected him 
to say “ we all get older,” they were silent. 

The walk round the garden was a failure for Daniel. 

Then at the front door on their way in to tea there 
was a sudden outcry because an old green tub of 
geraniums had been done away with. 

“ But I remember it! ” pouted Thelma. 

“ It was broken,” said her father. 

“ That doesn’t matter, I remember it there ! ” 



TANTALUS 


157 

“ Your father wants to cut the lowest bough of the 
cedar tree." 

“ Oh, Dad ! " 

“ It's killing the grass-" 

“ No, promise you won’t ? I want everything here 
just the same for ever ! " 

Their father laughed, but he was vexed. He, too, 
must be “ the same " for ever. When they had put 
down their umbrellas he caught hold of Thelma and 
kissed her hard. 

“ Father! " shrieked the girl laughing, struggling, 
blushing a little. Then the children came jumping 
round again, and it was tea-time. 

“ The clouds are breaking-" said Mrs. Jennifer. 

It was true, Daniel felt the sunlight touch his face, and 
he saw that Simonne had changed her blouse and had 
pinned upon its creamy folds a flame-coloured anemone. 

He must take things lightly, smile and joke ; and 
all at once a new, cold feeling touched him, fear ! The 
ground seemed false whichever way he looked, and 
painful; and if he once admitted this then a senseless 
moment caught him, was it Age—this hard, dry, empty 
feeling like an egg which has been blown ? 

“ Your father’s tired—Easter, you know ! ’’ his good 
wife was whispering, and in fidelity to what they all 
expected of him he smiled pleasantly and said : 

“ Hard work, hard work ! ’’ but it was a relief to look 
at Mademoiselle. 

Simonne had prepared herself, she had had an instinct 
that this afternoon would touch her happiness, but she 
knew no one could love as she did. She had watched 
that stroll round the garden, she had seen over the 


TANTALUS 


158 

banisters that sudden kiss in the hall; she had walked 
in to tea with her muscles stiff and her face flushed and 
hard, suffering the old pain of forced inaction. She 
might not take his hand, or look at him; if he said 
nothing, she could say nothing. If he said nothing 
till she went, she could still say nothing. 

Margaret passed her the gingerbread, but as a hostess 
waits on a stranger, and that hurt too, when she, 
Simonne, had been there so long. The girls talked to 
her politely, Thelma's magnificent blue eyes had one 
long look at her—but she was the governess, that voice¬ 
less presence which has no stake in the family soul. 

When tea was over she went to her room. The girls 
ran to unpack. Daniel sat in his study surprised to 
find himself alone again ; he had been buoying himself 
up with a fantastic picture of some moment with “ the 
girls," and when it had not occurred in the garden or 
the dining-room he had moved the imagined scene to 
his study. 

But filial feelings, morals, and dissatisfaction 
scattered away like dust when going upstairs he heard 
sounds of muffled sobbing in the spare room. All his 
natural kind-heartedness turned fiery hot in him, and 
without knocking or apology he marched straight in. 

“ God knows ..." was all he whispered, and felt 
strangely that he was clinging to truth and light after 
cold dead subterfuge. 

Youth could be lonely too, and the knowledge 
brought pain; youth mustn’t suffer. Another, tenderer 
conscience made Daniel loose his hold, whispering : 

“ Bless you ! " he went away. 

There was a moment’s calm in the spare room, one 


TANTALUS 


159 

of those moments when the wind is gone and every 
flower stands still in the sun, glistening from the last 
shower, too thankful for peace to risk a movement. 
Simonne sat quietly pressing in on herself this last 
experience. She felt she had no body then, there was 
no sense of power, but a more wonderful sense of 
self-oblivion. 

His coming to her, his silence, his knowledge of her 
sufferings that day had increased love until she felt 
she had disappeared in it. 

Reappearance would be hard, and she put it off. It 
was hard ; stiff and painful as the first step out of bed 
after a day’s walking; every action jarred her vision, 
but there were things to do, she was Mademoiselle 
Dubois, the governess. 

Then she discovered the yellow sunset and her room 
transfigured. The pale walls took the light greedily, 
the old brown furniture turned dusky orange, the 
curtains were like yellow foam. Daffodils she had 
picked shone and swam in long glittering rays which 
crossed the looking-glass. Her heart thumped. It 
was a “ blessing,” she thought, this glory in her ugly 
room ; and just as rain comes suddenly in spring, so 
tears rushed down her cheeks, she felt so full, as if her 
heart itself was the sunset. 

“ I love him! ” she told herself. Two minutes 
afterwards she was hurrying out to find the children. 


CHAPTER XXII 


Daniel had joined his girls who were looking at the 
sunset. A curious, harp-shaped cloud with a rainbow 
coloured edge was floating west just then, and the 
children—jumping up and down, were pointing at it. 
Little Claude asked : “ Is it heaven ? " 

When Mrs. Jennifer offered to fetch her husband's 
opera glasses, “No, no," was his short answer; 

“ where's Ma'moiselle ? " 

The cloud glowed like a butterfly’s wing, the edge 
grew still more radiant: “ Like motor oil when it’s 
spilt on tar ! " cried Claude. 

Margaret put her arm round her mother's neck, and 
happening to glance at her father saw him looking at 
the bedroom windows. 

“ Shall I call the governess ? " she asked in her kind, 
serious voice ; but received such a piercing look from 
her father that she felt startled. 

“ No," he said brusquely ; “ no, no, the sun has set." 

That night in the drawing-room, the girls stretched 
their arms, leaning luxuriously back on the sofa! 
There was less excitement now but deeper pleasure, for 
everything they looked at belonged to their past lives, 
and life had been happy. 

But presently they spoke softly and more softly— 
their father sat so still as if listening for something. 
When the eldest girl gazed at him she saw him bent 
160 


TANTALUS 161 

forward, neck thrust out, face turned to the door. She 
began to listen too, but the old house was silent. 

Thelma grew sleepy and suddenly laid her head on 
her mother’s knee ; but hospital training worked in 
Margaret, she noticed that both her father and mother 
had aged in the last four months, her mother looked 
worn, her father’s features had become pinched and 
sharp ; his eyebrows were continually twitching, he 
moved one hand or jerked his foot. “ They feel the 
war,” she thought. 

“ Does the governess always sit upstairs ? ” she asked 
presently (not because she was curious, but simply 
because in the silence which had just filled the room 
the French girl came into her mind). 

'‘No,” said her mother, and at once looked anxious, 
“ she knits in here as a rule. Ought we, ought we— 
dear ? ” 

“ Never mind her,” said Thelma lazily; “ jollier just 
ourselves.” 

“You must get her to play to you,” her father 
answered. Margaret said : 

“ It’s dull for her, I’ll call her down.” 

“ That’s better, come along ! ” Daniel forced himself 
to cry out cheerily when Margaret and Simonne 
reappeared ; but at the look the governess gave him, 
imploring him not to talk like that, he felt guilty. 

Powerless waiting saps determination, sends decision 
a hundred ways, rolls our longings about like balls. 

For Simonne this quiet evening was a thing of 
shadows with one reality—his eyes. And it came to 
an end in a sound of vague “ good-nights,” and cold 
hands shaking her hot ones, and faces which questioned 


TANTALUS 


162 

a little, not much ; and an intimate blissful flaming at 
the clasp of his fingers. For her the day which followed 
was neither sad nor gay, but full of heart-swellings and 
sudden sighs, and long long silences. For quite an 
hour she would look severe, saying to herself: “ It’s 
nothing/' but yet aware that there were four meals 
ahead of her that day, four direct meetings ; and if 
Daniel failed to appear at lunch she felt all at once as 
if her heart must fall through the floor. Then, escaping 
from the children, she hid in the garden. There were 
many hours when she simply waited. 

It was wet the day of the Bazaar. At half-past 
three it was raining hopelessly, but the whole party 
set out. Mrs. Jennifer had protested that it was 
“ dangerous," “ too wet " for the children ; but their 
uncle said "No. They were coming." Their governess 
smiled at him. 

Bazaars were held at the Town Hall, nearly every one 
had a stall or was “ selling " at somebody else’s, so the 
chief buyers were shop-people, soldiers, servants and 
chance visitors. Mrs. Clutterbuck had the home-made 
pincushions, hair tidies, candlestick mats, blotter 
covers, and ornamental boxes for cigarettes ; Mrs. 
Wilson worked the tea urn at the vicarage tea-stall 
(supplied with cakes by Mrs. Wurrell, Miss Bostock, 
and other good friends). The Wurrells themselves had 
a " fancywork " stall; Miss Gale was helping some¬ 
body to sell a pile of rakish-looking “ second-hand hats." 
The room was hot, the air smelt of cheap scent and 
shoes, and india-rubber. 

When the Jennifers arrived it was still too early for 
work behind the tea-stall, and the whole party walked 


TANTALUS 


163 

about the hall, greeting friends. Margaret took her 
father’s arm going first with him, she felt glad, proud ; 
all their friends met him with such respect. He 
laughed and talked and pressed her arm ; and the 
room got hotter, the atmosphere became more 
exhausted. 

Margaret, feeling giddy, was startled all at once by 
the smile on her father’s face, in this little moment of 
weakness it struck her as extraordinary ; it was not the 
usual pleasant smile which she remembered, but some¬ 
thing sharp, twisted, exasperated ! Next moment the 
fancy passed. 

But to Daniel this slow tour of the Town Hall was a 
nightmare. He had imagined himself showing the 
stalls to Simonne, walking, in fact, with the children. 
That he would be obliged to walk ahead with his 
daughter had not occurred to him, and when that 
happened he did not know how to escape. He found 
himself a little afraid of Margaret, she so often looked 
at him, a long, clear glance full of affection, and was it 
wonder ? Whenever he felt this doubt he squeezed 
her arm. At last he asked her if it wasn’t time for her 
to take her stand behind the tea-stall; but she was not 
“ selling/’ she told him, and then his heart sank. It 
was hard enough to get a word with Simonne at the 
vicarage ; was Margaret going to stroll with him all 
day ? Miss Gale had taken Margaret’s place (at the 
“ Victoria sandwich ” end), because Margaret had been 
standing so much in hospital. All this his daughter 
told him as though it didn’t matter, in a quiet, dreamy 
way, stopping to point at something, or to speak to an 
old friend. 


TANTALUS 


164 

“ People will expect to see you there,” he told her. 
When she stood still to admire Miss Cantyre’s knitting 
he looked back quickly ; buyers had crowded up, he 
couldn’t see the governess, but sharp and clear came 
the sound of Claude’s voice asking : “ Why ? ” He 
wanted to listen ; but Margaret drew him into polite 
talk with Miss Can tyre. 

“ What a house party you’ve got ! ” his chief 
parishioner remarked; “ but your little niece and 

nephews leave on Saturday ? ” 

“Yes,” said Daniel. 

“ You’ll feel quite sad ! ” Miss Cantyre smiled. It 
was one of those remarks not intended to mean any¬ 
thing ; but her light tone whipped the vicar’s nerves. 

“ Saturday-! ” he said to himself, “ Only two 

days more ? Two days . . 

" Unshrinkable-” Miss Cantyre was saying mean¬ 

time to a soldier. 

Daniel and Margaret strolled on, but now he forgot 
to press her arm, he could not chatter or smile, he began 
to hurry through the crowded hall to the tea-table. 

There stood his wife flushed, her blue eyes shining, 
smiling at the boys and girls and tradespeople who 
were buying her buns. 

“ Where are the children ? ” was Daniel’s question. 

“ Mother sent them home,” said Thelma carelessly. 
From this moment the noise and heat of the Bazaar 
became unbearable. 

Half-an-hour later Daniel was disturbed by Mar¬ 
garet fainting suddenly. Dr. Grey was present luckily, 
and he and Nurse Thompson took the girl to the 
doctor's house close by. 





TANTALUS 165 

“ Symptomatic/’ said the doctor ; “ run down ; um ! 
great care ; well, well; three days in bed.” 

Her father took her home. 

Margaret had her father’s brown eyes and his features, 
with dark hair; she was reserved, sensitive and 
idealistic. In religion she was a Campion, in action a 
bit of a Jennifer. With all this was an unknown depth 
which had burst up suddenly in wartime, the spirit that 
makes heroines. She admired her father and respected 
him ; she was a worthy daughter, a “ fine specimen ”— 
as some loving landowner would say of a young tree. 

Lying in bed next day she was surprised to hear the 
children continually shout: “ Uncle Dan ! ” Their 

voices met him from the schoolroom each time that 
door was opened, but why—she wondered idly—why 
did he go there so often ? It didn’t fit in with her old 
memories of the day’s routine. He used to “ visit ” at 
this hour, or again it was his “ time for study ” and 
instead—there was Hilda’s gay voice shouting : “ Uncle 
Dan ! ” 

“ What’s father doing ? ” she asked Thelma once. 
Her sister replied casually : 

“ Oh, Dad’s got the jumps.” 

“ D’you know,” discovered Margaret, “ I believe he’s 
‘ done up ’ ! ” 

" Rot! ” laughed Thelma, “ Dad hasn’t been doing 
war work ! ” 

In his study Daniel was facingj’a hard hour. Miss 
Cantyre’s words worked in him . . . Yesterday’s life 
seemed impossible to-day; every hour, every hour 
things took new shape and meaning ! “ Love ” grew 


i66 


TANTALUS 


too fast! You couldn't calculate, a fever took you 
with this thirst and trembling . . . better to hide it, 
give it no chance, swallow it. 

In two days she would be gone. 

Ah ! he would beat up religion then and crush out 
folly ; he would go round and talk with his brother 
clergymen. All at once he heard rain beating on the 
window, saw it glistening : an April storm, the cuckoo 
calling, and at sound of it, without will or power of his 
own, a shudder took him. 

Half-an-hour later he was once more entering the 
schoolroom. 

“ Father ! ” (Margaret’s voice) ; “ Thelma says 

there’s a letter for you from Miss Cantyre. Won’t you 
come and read it here ? ” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Three times a year Miss Cantyre’s aunt, the rich 
Emelia Cantyre, came to stay at Hartake House, 
bringing a maid, an old dog, and an atmosphere of tart 
dislike. She only went out during those divine half 
hours between rain and wind when the sun shines 
gently, and trees spread themselves ; then, drawing 
two thin lips together she would mutter to her maid : 
“ Faster! ” An affection of the heart prevented her from 
going to church, but she was a regular communicant, 
taking the sacrament at whatever house she stayed in. 

“ Send for your man, what’s his name ? ” she would 
say to her niece. And Miss Cantyre would think, 
“ Roast duck—no, perhaps a goose ” ; and presently, 
on cream-laid notepaper, she would write : 

“ Dear Mr. Jennifer,— 

“ My aunt is with us, we should be so much 
obliged if you could make it convenient to come 
and give her her little service to-morrow, at twelve 
o’clock. We shall expect you to lunch, as usual. 

“ What peculiar weather we seem to be having, 
do we not ? 

“ Yours sincerely, 

“ Gwendolin Cantyre.” 

Daniel had received such a note on Wednesday 
evening, so next day he walked towards Hartake House 
carrying his handbag. 


167 


i68 


TANTALUS 


The young green appearing on the hawthorn looked 
like a libation of chopped parsley scattered to the gods, 
but the vicar stared absently at Nature, and did not 
see the blackbird on Miss Cantyre’s gate. Miss Cantyre 
herself met Daniel in the hall, her light green eyes were 
cool as ice, and with a tranquil smile she led him to the 
library. It was one of those rare moments when the 
vicar felt a little like a piano tuner. Miss Cantyre made 
no fuss and stir about these services, she never attended 
her aunt’s communion. Daniel, left alone, tugged with 
a vexed motion at his surplice, then, being ready, cleared 
his throat. 

A thin sharp voice snapped out: 

“ Another cushion, Bevis.” 

The vicar always bowed to old Miss Cantyre upon 
entering, and then, in silence, made his preparations. 
Old Miss Cantyre never knelt, she sat bent forward, 
her sharp eye on the priest, with a look of pouting 
grievance. In a velvet bag placed to hand by Bevis, 
the maid, lay the offering she would presently make ; 
Emelia Cantyre did not take the sacrament for her own 
sake, but because she knew it was good for the church. 
Perhaps this was why Daniel felt menial ministering to 
her. He took no liberties with prayer or collect, giving 
each in order, without undue fervour, but with an 
effect of sanctity ; he knew her sharp grey eyes were 
on him. She was one of those old guardians of the 
form of things that were, content to keep them so ; 
and she sat like a watcher of new players in an old, old 
play, while from the corner of his eye the player watched 
her maid. 

What marvellous self-effacement, and yet what life 


TANTALUS 


169 

beneath ? A pale, creamy-faced woman with black 
hair and a fme figure growing finer but held in, and as 
it were concealed. She knelt facing him, never stirring, 
only her full lips smiled. 

“ Am I of use to her ? ” he wondered, and when he 
handed her the tiny chalice, perceived that they were 
fellow actors. 

Old Miss Cantyre sat like the Lord God, he himself 
was her high priest, and Be vis her congregation ; she 
made no show of humility—that was for the congrega¬ 
tion, and she did not worship—that was for the priest, 
she presided. So, all her life, had the church ministered 
to her self-esteem, while she had given countenance 
and money to the church. If she had kept a private 
chaplain he would have formed part of her luggage with 
Bevis the maid, and her dog. Now she kept her eyes 
on the man of Hartake, he might be “ modern,” but he 
was her servant in the big white drawing-room, in 
perfect silence, amid perfect luxury, near a fire unlike 
all other fires so soundless was it, giving so little 
warmth. 

Sun shone outside, her niece strolled round the 
flower beds, once during a pause they heard the snip 
of the garden scissors. 

When the vicar had blessed Emelia Cantyre, knelt, 
and softly risen, collected his vessels, and with bent 
head walked softly out, the old lady yawned, and 
Daniel heard her asking : 

“ What’s for lunch ? ” 

“ Roast goose, madam.” 

“Tell them I can’t eat that.” 

Opposite feelings filled him, desire for some sort of 


170 


TANTALUS 


Popish power wherewith to humiliate Emelia Cantyre ! 
distrust and dislike of the part he had played, anger 
that the woman, Bevis, had been forced to participate ; 
and finally a sense that he had been of no benefit. 
Was Miss Cantyre worth it ? Had every parish a Miss 
Cantyre ? What were the relations between himself 
and Gwendolin Cantyre ? Very nice ! She sent all 
the hot-house flowers for the high festivals, and the 
fruits for the harvest offering, she supported him, and 

he-? Daniel felt that for years he had been her 

spiritual business manager ! 

The hall gong sounded. 

Miss Cantyre’s carved dinner table was crowned by 
a bowl of freesia, superlative silver and glass ministered 
pleasantly, the dishes were delicate, the maids silent; 
conversation, too, was decorous, yet light enough, just 
free enough, a relaxation. 

“ A little more goose, Mr. Jennifer ? Did you see 
Archdeacon Bluebolt’s death ? ” 

“ Thanks ! Yes, poor man." 

“ But what did you think of that last disclosure, that 
letter to the bishop ? ” 

“ A mistake. Sad, very sad. I knew the poor 
fellow.” 

“ Really ? Auntie, Mr. Jennifer knew Archdeacon 
Bluebolt ” 

“ Abroad, in Italy. One of those dear good fellows 
who have no sense of balance.” 

“ I know,” drawled Miss Cantyre, “ a fanatic.” 

“ I dislike fanatics,” snapped Emelia. 

“ Ah,” said Miss Cantyre, “ his mother’s father, you 
know, was a plumber.” 



TANTALUS 


171 

At a quarter to four that afternoon Daniel was once 
more sitting in the schoolroom. It was empty, but he 
felt near her there. His own girls had come and 
carried him off from Miss Cantyre’s, begging his com- 
pany for “a jolly tramp ! ” “I simply couldn’t stop 
in bed ! ” Margaret had declared ; and his young 
Thelma—like a frisky colt, had leaped at his side. Up 
the Downs his girls had dragged him ; only while 
returning through a little wood he had seated himself 
all at once on a certain log, saying : “You run along, 
I’m tired ! ” Even then they wouldn’t let him dream ; 
after roving round they had come for him, Thelma, 
tired and happy, Margaret smiling. And walking home 
between them he had hurried ! Hard, twisted longing 
had gripped him in that wood. 

Now came his wife’s voice : “ Daniel ? Tea at Miss 
Bostock’s-” 

“I’m not coming ! ” he shouted. 

“ Oh, but . . . Where are you, dear ? ” 

The vicar walked out of the schoolroom before 
answering : “ All right. I’ll come ! ” 

In Miss Bostock’s drawing-room he sat on a cretonne- 
covered sofa, and stretched his arms along the back, 
trying vainly to warm himself in an atmosphere he had 
loved. 

“ Thelma,” his hostess was saying, “ give your father 
that stool for his cup ” (a breakfast cup especially for 
him). 

“ Margaret, pass the muffins.” 

Last year he had sat on the same sofa, smiling at the 
same people, eating muffins with a sense of benefit to 
the world at large ; and now . . . 



172 


TANTALUS 


“ You’re going to lose your little niece and nephews ?” 
Miss Bostock asked him. “ How quiet the house will 
seem ! ” Cups were passed, talk flowed round, that 
sly Miss Bostock with her crumpled face, shrewd eyes, 
and humorous mouth rallied the vicar, led him into a 
tete-a-tete with a V.A.D. girl home on leave, who told 
him slowly : “ There’s a new spirit—out there.” 

“ Very fine,” he exclaimed testily, “ but when these 
men come back, when they are once more clerks and 
factory men and labourers, will any of them come to 
church ? ” 

“ That depends on Mr. Jennifer ! ” laughed Miss 
Bostock. 

“ It does not,” said Daniel quickly ; “ it depends on 
a system of which I am part. Is the system . . . ? ” 
Uncertainty overtook his voice, but then, happily, the 
amazement in Thelma’s eyes produced one of those 
electric skin-changes, and the vicar was once more 
suave, humorous, polite. 

But Mrs. Jennifer had flushed, her heart evidently 
was burning, the outbreak came : 

“ He’s got into a way, lately, of, of laughing at him¬ 
self—just because he isn’t fighting, with a gun I mean.” 

“ Lion Head ? ” Miss Bostock was saying presently, 
and glancing at Thelma’s radiant pink face : “You 
should have taken some nice young man ! No faun in 
that wood, Mr. Jennifer ? ” 

“ They went off and left me.” 

“ Father ! you told us to ‘ go away.’ ” 

Miss Bostock smiled. 

“ We do that, and then they go, and then we realise 
they’re gone—and that’s ‘ old age ’! ” she told the vicar. 


TANTALUS 


173 

“ Old age is simply common sense instead of egoism,” 
he answered. 

“ Oh, no,” replied Miss Bostock, “ that’s middle age. 
Old age is just as full of itself as Youth, they’re both 
egoists ! ” 

“ But I think there’s nothing more beautiful than a 

very good, saintly old man-” Mrs. Jennifer joined 

in. Recoiling from this vision of his tottering father- 
in-law, Daniel said vigorously : 

“ Thank God I’m not old ! ” but at once thought 
“ Do they think me old ? ” Thelma, surely, was 
looking at him strangely ! 

“We are old when we become afraid of action,” said 
Margaret with cool detachment; her mother didn’t 
agree, the vicar was appealed to. 

“ Perhaps we’re never old ? ” he answered, conscious 
of acute astonishment in Thelma’s eyes. 

“ But we have to get old! ” said his youngest 
daughter. 

“ Old and saintly,” answered Daniel, “ —a state 
particularly blessed in the Bible ! ” 

Thelma was unused to sarcasm and could only 
protest by increased wideness of her fine blue eyes and 
by opening her large happy mouth showing a double 
row of sharp white teeth which had, to Daniel’s mind, 
an over-eager look as if engaging to bite any apple in 
any garden ; her round cheeks glowed with the same 
candour. Whatever clothes were put upon her body 
the joy of youth itself broke through them, making 
their ugliness of no account. 

After tea that day Margaret walked with her father 
to evensong. 



174 TANTALUS 

“You can still return to our quiet ways ? ” he asked 
her curiously. 

“ It’s lovely/’ she answered, “ to come back to what 
one remembers. Of course some of the men haven’t got 
that memory, so they want something—something new.” 

Daniel looked askance at his tall, dark-haired 
daughter ; she was innocent of humour. To open his 
mind became impossible. But all at once she put her 
arm through his, with a sense of panic he heard her ask : 

“ What is it, Daddy ? ” 

A sunset breeze had caught and torn the clouds, and 
now they spread out, burning, like huge sails of boats 
on fire. They flamed, and the vicar hurried. But 
once in his study he let himself go, down, deep, through 
physical tiredness to a tiredness of hope and faith ; 
until out of that grief the positive, centripetal man 
thrust up its head. 

“ What would become of her ? ” he wondered ; was 
he wise to let her go ? Would she remember him ? 
Where was she now ? In the schoolroom, playing to 
him. What was that little thing she had played the 
other day ? Moonlight, queer night noises, leaves, a 
far-off stream all bound together, and yet distinct as 
the passing glitter on a cloud—“ an Adagio by Bach.” 

When Mrs. Jennifer ran in a little later she was 
frightened at finding her husband in the dark; anxiously 
waving a bracket-lamp before his eyes she asked : 

“ Are you well, dear ? It’s our party to-night.” 

“ What ? ” 

“You know the Clutterbuck girls are coming, and 
some young friends of Thelma’s, and Mrs. Bigthorn. 
How flushed you are ! Do you feel quite well ? ” 


TANTALUS 


175 


Daniel smiled, and his smile was disturbing as some 
malicious jest; all through the evening it kept re¬ 
appearing, there was such force in it that it soon carried 
ordinary gaiety to squealing pitch. 

Never had there been such laughter, such wild spirits 
in the vicarage drawing-room ; Mrs. Jennifer, though 
shaken to a state of hiccoughs, alone looked startled. 

The Clutterbuck girls felt a little mad, each time they 
met the vicar’s eyes such extraordinary sensations 
followed ! but being innocent, good girls, they enjoyed 
it, though marvelling. 

Their mother, and old Mrs. Bigthorn, Mrs. Verral, 
even Mrs. Wilson looked back straight at Daniel, they 
were not upset, or pierced, only full of curiosity ; and 
against their curiosity danced Daniel’s eyes burning, 
angry, laughing, with a new mastery, subjecting them 
all to his will. He was the moving spirit, the centre of 
the “ conundrums ” game, acting the part of the 
“ doctor ” who crosses the room, shakes hands with a 
lady, inquires for her health, raises his hat and goes 
past her again (“ Metaphysician,” and “ Metaphor ”). 

“ Mr. Jennifer never keeps still! ” one visitor said; 
“ he’s all over the place ! ” 

“ He’s electric ! ” said somebody else. 

“ It’s having his daughters back,” declared the Misses 
Wurrell on their way home. 

“ I hope it doesn’t mean a breakdown,” said Mrs. 
Bigthorn. “ I don’t like to see a steady man like our 
vicar get that look in his eyes.” 

“ What look ? ” asked Julia Clutterbuck. 

“ A look, my dear, you see sometimes in London men 
at theatres.” 


176 TANTALUS 

Mrs. Verral smoothed this over : “ A * strained ’ 
look-” 

But Daniel, locking up the vicarage, still felt that 
sentient, dark-centric force in him insisting on a 
consummation. 



CHAPTER XXIV 


The vicar went up to Town next day. He started 
with an air of authority, wearing his high-crowned hat, 
and firmly over-riding all words from his wife ; he was, 
he said, “ obliged to go up ” ; and having waved his 
hand at the bend of the drive, hurried off. 

High in the sky a few feathery clouds gleamed near 
the sun, when one floated across, a shadow flew mile 
after mile the whole length of the Weald, the cloud 
dissolved, the shadow was consumed, the sun shone, 
other clouds waited their moment. 

“ I would give my whole past,” thought Daniel, and 
abruptly ceased to think. 

At a quarter to four he reached Ormulu Square ; 
brisk and firm he mounted the steps. Mrs. Buckle was 
in. One’s best, suave pulpit manner was the thing 
with Maggie; she didn’t like it, but she couldn’t 
circumvent it. Waiting in her drawing-room, it struck 
him as being singularly dead for the envelope of such 
an active life as Maggie’s. He heard some one open 
the dining-room door, a room face to back with the one 
he was in ; was it Maggie ? No, only a maid with 
a tray. 

Daniel forced himself to think of his sister-in-law. 
An energetic woman—she “ went into ” things like 
drains and laws and margarine. She had built up a 
large propagandist league showing up what margarine 

177 


X. 


TANTALUS 


178 

was made of, with fearful statistics showing the amount 
of pure and impure stuff; the impure, she said, was 
compounded of grease from the London sewers. She 
was constantly threatened with prosecution. She was 
known as a “ crank.” But for all her eagle nose, black 
brows, dark hair, hard bones—there were her eyes, 
deep set, marsala-coloured with distended pupils and 
a black rim round the iris ; they were too clear, too 
disillusioned ; when they rested on a pot of ferns one 
saw three fronds were dead. 

Her eyes were immediately upon the vicar when she 
came in to him, a tall, gaunt figure, dressed severely in 
dark blue. 

“ Been to the clerical meeting ? ” Her voice was 
cold, but all the while her mind was busy, bent on 
calculations ; she was so used to dealing with the 
dissembling poor. 

“ As a matter of fact,” replied Daniel, “ I didn't 


She raised her brows. “ Tilly busy, I suppose ? ” 
‘‘Yes, yes ! You understood, I hope, about that 
little muddle of the letters ? ” 

“ Oh yes, I had six sheets from Tilly ! But it was 
most annoying; Miss Eagle, Dunstan’s godmother, 
came up for Easter, and I wanted her to see him ; but 
she’s gone.” 

Maggie was sitting forward with her hands between 
her knees, and Daniel thought, “ I’m here, but why ? 
That’s what she’s waiting for 1 ” 

“ I’ve just been wondering if you wouldn’t care to 
let the children stay a little longer ? Claude still 
coughs at night. There ! I’m going to make myself 



TANTALUS 


179 


a cup of tea ! ” Action was best with these thoughtful 
women, show no quavering ! but he was glad to turn 
his back. 

Maggie, following between the velvet curtains, took 
her place ; she was old-fashioned enough to prefer tea 
in the dining-room. 

“You must take some of my new pamphlets,” she 
was saying, “ put 'em on your church notice-board, 
and make Tilly read 'em at her next mothers’ meeting.” 

Opposite Daniel hung an oil-painting of his brother- 
in-law. It showed a middle-aged man whose dark eyes 
dominated a crooked nose, a short grey moustache, and 
timid mouth. No eyebrows visible, the whole life lay 
in those staring, prominent eyes, a black eye, bitter 
and hot. 

“ How's Maurice ? ” asked Daniel. 

“ Better, thanks.” Maggie glanced at the portrait; 
her husband was rather an invalid. Daniel looked at 
his sister-in-law, she was pondering, and hope of success 
almost paralysed him; Maggie, he could see, was 
examining him, sniffing around for deception : 

“ You've got the girls back ? ” 

“ Yes, Thelma's had mumps, but she's well, quite 
well; Meg's home for a week,” then he waited, afraid 
to seem anxious. Maggie spoke slowly : 

“I'm fearfully pressed just now-” 

“Yes, yes, of course.” 

“ But I don't quite know. What Claude really 
wants is the sea. There was an advertisement in the 
Church Times to-day: old Forstall, of Snayle, would 
make an exchange. Where are you going for your 
holiday ? ” 


N 2 


i8o 


TANTALUS 


Daniel felt a queer squeeze at his heart, but pursing 
his lips, as though considering a vestry matter, he 
answered: 

“ I’ve hardly considered ... I dare say we could. 
Snayle ? Now that’s on the coast ? Old Forstall ? 
hm ! . . 

“ Would you write to him ? ” asked Maggie. 

“ Well, well, I might-” replied Daniel carefully ; 

he dared not look at Maggie just then, a feeling of bliss 
crept round his heart; only by staring at a plate of 
buns with an air of complete abstraction could he keep 
from drumming with his feet on the floor. 

“ Forstall,” he said aloud, “ Forstall, good fellow-” 

(he had forgotten Forstall, but that didn’t matter !). 

Maggie’s clear, marsala-coloured eye wandered 

over his face. “ I don’t know-” she said; 

“ perhaps-” 

“ That’s settled ? ” 

It was the maid coming in with fresh tea-cakes who 
was surprised by the visitor’s shaky voice : the mistress 
was busy seeing false seeds in the jam. 

The necessity for further speech upset the vicar. 

“ What a magnificent-” he began, and positively 

could find nothing more to say, but as Maggie waited 
he i plunged on : “ magnificent, magnificent day for the 
troops ! ” 

Maggie|got up : 

“ Well, if Tilly feels Claude ought to stay till his 
cough has gone ... It will save me hunting about at 
once ; I rather think of getting rid of the governess.” 

“ What ? ” Daniel got no further. He looked at 
Maggie’s long arms, her long legs, her long face on its 



TANTALUS 


181 


long brown neck ; at the long, careworn marks which 
now seemed sadness on her face ; while a nervous 
tingling which had quivered through his fingers, a 
longing to take and thrash her for perversity died down. 
One could not, in these days, beat a woman. 

She answered slowly : 

“ Mademoiselle Dubois is a good girl. I like her. 
But I’m sorry I let Miss Woolley go.” 

“ Keep Mademoiselle Dubois,” said Daniel earnestly, 
and surprised himself by getting up and squeezing 
Maggie’s hand : “—for the children ! ” 

For a moment Daniel’s deep brown eyes searched 
into and were searched by Maggie’s disillusioned, 
clearer ones, then the door opened, Buckle came in. 

“ Hullo, Jennifer, what brought you up ? ” He 
stood in the doorway, short, pale, unhealthy looking ; 
his glance suspicious. 

“ Good-bye; then that’s settled, we keep the 
children ! ” exclaimed Daniel, and to Buckle : “ Must 
hurry; trains—you know.” 

“ What’s that about the children ? ” Buckle 
asked. 

Maggie’s cold answer: “ Daniel has been kind 

enough to ask them to the seaside, I shall let them go,” 
surprised the vicar ; Maggie had almost proposed it 
herself ! Then he saw Buckle stare at her with such 
a beaten, yet begging look that Daniel felt his blood 
tingle, there was something hidden ! and without will 
of his own a thought struck him—“ Buckle and the 
governess ? ” Impossible !—Yet one had only to look 
at that crooked face with the prominent eyes, eyes of 
desire, black, sexual eyes ! Daniel had always known 


i82 


TANTALUS 


his brother-in-law to be a weak, unhealthy man, but 
he had never thought of this domestic tragedy. 

Next moment he was hurrying down the steps to seat 
himself (an odd feeling in the legs) on a seat beyond the 
birch trees in the small Square Garden. 

If he had stepped from the church door into a rushing 
river he could not have been more surprised. Buckle! 
Buckle with those black eyes on the governess ! Daniel 
could think of nothing, he wanted to act; if he couldn’t 
act, feeling would break some blood-vessel! He 
muttered : “ Maggie ! ” then smiled suddenly. Maggie 
aggrieved ! The cold, clear, righteous Maggie—ha, ha ! 
but thank God . . . well . . . He would, he would 
. . . The blood ebbed from the vicar’s head, he 
stretched his toes and stared straight into the trees. 

“ I can keep her! ” he thought all at once. It 
became a divinely tender, intimate thought; Buckle 
faded out, Maggie, Tilly, his girls, his parish. 

When he walked on again clouds were tinted flame 
colour ; above the Serpentine hung a slim new moon. 


CHAPTER XXV 


Daniel travelled home very tired. The present was 
filled simply by the hour of peace which comes after 
uncertainty. 

It was pleasant to sit smiling in a cosy corner, 
shadows round his feet, unconscious of fellow- 
passengers, thinking : “I can keep her ! ” 

There is an hour in summer, before the trees have 
turned, when the oats are stooked, but corn stands like 
burnt amber, nothing stirs, the sky appears a vast blue 
dome, a little paler at its edges, and under it the hills 
lie sleek and yellow. The elms, the oaks, the walnut 
trees—Nature with velvet hand folds them together. 
Everything is vivid, silent, sentient; it is the hour of 
Life feeling herself. So Daniel sat and felt his own 
emotions. And emotion danced as the light on the 
corn ! His old recollections of Simonne slipped away 
like books or tunes which have served their turn, he 
would have such new impressions ! 

He was stiff and a little giddy when he got out at 
Hartake ; the sight of the evening star surprised him, 
the moon had set, the sky was the colour of Simonne’s 
beads. 

The cool night walk refreshed his love, brought action 
into it; but when his house hid the evening star he 
sighed, wondering if he would ever know such certainty 
again. 


TANTALUS 


184 

“ My dear Daniel! " was Tilly's greeting, “ how late 
you are ! Tve been so frightened ! Did you have an 
accident ? " 

By the pale red light of the hall lantern Daniel looked 
at his wife as a builder looks at bricks : “ Are you all 
right ? " that glance seems to say. 

“ I called on Maggie," he answered slowly ; he must 
make things simple and very straight, because he was 
tired, and every word difficult, and he disliked repeti¬ 
tion. He would rather have talked with the housemaid 
then, than explain to his wife. 

“ Maggie made me late, dear ; she's full of some new 
plan ; in fact, she, or rather I—I think we both agreed 

that we need some sort of change-" Anguish 

caught Mrs. Jennifer’s face. “ Yes, a change to the 
sea. I shall try to exchange with old Forstall, of 
Snayle. And we take the children with us." 

But the word “ children " never penetrated to his 
wife's shocked brain. 

“ Oh, Daniel! " she cried, “—the potatoes ! " 

If Daniel hadn’t been so tired, he would have laughed. 
Instead he sat down rather suddenly on the hall bench. 
Tilly, bless her ! saw nothing; her eyes and hands 
were all for the spade. 

“ Well, I feel I need some sort of a change," he told 
her. Mrs. Jennifer’s fingers were cruelly interlaced, 
her face was haggard ; then she bent down and kissed 
him. 

“ I'm selfish, darling ; of course you must go." 

Sighing, he told her that he had had no supper, and 
while she hurried off to tell the cook, he went to his 
study. It was mercifully dark, and once inside he sank 


TANTALUS 


185 

back in his chair, thought escaped, the few minutes 
with Tilly were left behind, as reality is left when we 
fall asleep, he was happy ! Head and limbs might feel 
a little queer after such a day on top of Easter, but he 
had “ settled it,” had got his “ own way.” Next 
moment he was startled by a little sound. Then, from 
a corner, the governess said timidly : 

“ The children—they would like to say good-night.” 
The tone of that voice gave in a flash the day she had 
spent: teaching, walking, dusting, scolding, talking at 
table, and below it all waiting, hoping, fearing, guessing, 
longing . . . 

“ My dear,” he whispered back, “ you’re going to 
stay ! ” 

“ Oh ! M’sieu ! ” 

“ Your supper’s ready,” his wife called out, and she 
or Margaret pushed open the door. The red light of 
the lantern shone for a moment on Simonne’s face. 

“ That’s all right,” said the vicar. There are times 
when we don’t know what words we speak, something 
else has spoken for us . . . 

Daniel sat facing his Bible class next day in the 
dining-room under the same sacred pictures, on\y by 
daylight instead of lamp-light. He had felt quite 
unable to care or to concentrate. Taking a notebook 
five years old, he had given them an account of creation, 
from the folk-lore picture in Genesis; his lesson: 
“ Good and Evil—what was this knowledge which 
Adam and Eve attained ? . . .” But the ladies were 
too shy to answer, only Mrs. Jennifer, in her zeal for 
truth : 


i86 


TANTALUS 


“ My dear, you know—the aprons . . . ? ” 

Daniel sat at the head smiling, holding the class with 
a loose rein ; " Good and Evil/' he was thinking, and 
the class grew thin round him like smoke, while deep 
below he could feel fire, fire in his innermost soul; 
something that his good wife had never given him, love 
as a stimulant, instead of love as a cross. 

Love ! 

All at once he bowed his head and shut his eyes, and 
sat as if in prayer : Youth, Life, he was whispering, 
touching in fancy the hem of some shining garment, 
touching it humbly, wistfully, with trembling fervour ; 
for this white thing was Simonne, and Simonne was 
Youth, and Youth had looked at him, almost, with eyes 
of love ! . . . He was recalled by a sense of silence. 
The whole class, with one accord, had closed their eyes 
and bent their heads, they were deeply affected, Julia 
Clutterbuck even squeezed his hand at parting . . . 
In the porch they were all saying to his wife : 

“ The dear vicar ! ” 

“ So devoted ! ” 

“ So enthusiastic ! I don’t know what we shall do 
while he’s away ! ” 

“ Mr. Forstall,” Mrs. Jennifer assured them, “ is a 
very dear old man.” 

“ Yes, yes. But don’t let him leave us too long !— 
Our Mr. Jennifer ! ” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Mrs. Jennifer’s mind was like a map of Holland, 
there were solid “ dry ” places, and many little set 
“ canals ” ; but there had never been an overflowing, 
and seldom any stoppage of the dykes ; occasionally a 
little natural mist, tinted rosy. Her difficulty was the 
dispersing of her thoughts down all the dykes at once ! 
Anything unusual increased this complication until it 
weighed upon her like a nightmare. 

. . Six knives and forks . . . the silver fish 
knives ...” her lips kept saying, but necessity pushed 
forward all her thoughts, so that one bit of her was 
thinking : “ Will he pull the radishes ? Can I prevent 
him ? No, I can’t, we leave the garden to him in 
* exchanges ’ . . . my tomatoes ! ” and the conscience 
of a housewife urging her again : “ Six knives and 
forks . . ” 

“ Oh, yes’m,” sighed Kate, “ I wrote that down an 
hour ago ! ” 

“ What’s that ? I wasn’t thinking, let me see . . . 
six knives and forks ...” And there were sheets, 
and pillow-cases, blankets to be numbered ; there were 
clean curtains to be hung ; there was an awful “ year’s 
accumulation ” in dark cupboards to be sorted, stooping 
on your hands and knees, your head thrust into hat- 
boxes, while everything for which you had no use, and 
yet could not abandon, was pulled out again to puzzle 

187 


i88 


TANTALUS 


and frustrate you. Half a roll of wallpaper, a basket 
with no handle, a baby’s chair without a leg, a hat 
without a brim. And all those old umbrellas, those 
perforated, bright green parasols ! those innumerable 
newspapers ! There was nothing for it but to take 
them out, look at them distractedly and put them back 
again ! " I can burn the papers ” she thought, and 

crawled out of the cupboard to see why she had kept 
them so long ? Each one was marked by a pen and ink 
cross ; she remembered ! each one bore a notice of her 
husband. From the Parish Magazine of their London 
days to the huge flabby mass of The Iiartake Courier , 
they were full of grinning snapshots, handsome little 
silhouettes of the vicar’s head above articles beginning : 
“ Another fascinating lecture at the Parish Room on 
Wednesday night—subject : ‘ Moses in the bul¬ 
rushes treated naturalistically and artisti¬ 

cally as well as from the more serious, religious stand¬ 
point.” Or, “ Sermon : ‘ The people who in darkness 
sat a glorious light have seen.’ This beautiful text . . . 
treated with great earnestness and vigour ...” 

“ Bother ! ” thought Mrs. Jennifer, but quite sub¬ 
consciously, it would have shocked her intensely to 
have said such a word in this connection ; she folded 
the papers and put them back, and, as though to make 
up for that unexpressed “ bother,” recalled the lecture. 
He had treated the subject in some new way, but so 
successfully ! Dear Daniel, he was liked so much, and 
that made her feel so warm and proud ; he was so 
earnest, so good, so wonderful; and with each assertion 
her heart felt heavier. 

But just then, seeing black beetles, her thoughts ran 



TANTALUS 


189 

straight again . . . Another spirit who felt worried 
just now was Fan; coloured like a gleaming wet 
October beech leaf, she stole about with hanging head, 
in and'Out of all the rooms, anxiety increasing. There 
was a horrid smell in every cupboard, and it met you in 
old trunks and rugs and coats hung out to air; Fan 
didn’t know that it was called “ Fels-Naptha,” but 
she found it concentrated round her mistress. Her 
master, like herself, appeared to back away from it, 
while that low-class thing—the cat, went and packed 
itself in a portmanteau which fairly reeked of it! 
Wherever she went Fan found what she detested : the 
unusual. There was only one safe spot, her master’s 
foot. His study being cleaned, he sat more in the 
schoolroom, little shivers of contentment would ripple 
down Fan’s skin, his foot was so very happy there ! 
Only at night in the drawing-room, or on the mat out¬ 
side the drawing-room door, little shivers of fear 
twitched her coat above her ribs, and sighs of doubt 
burst from her when her head would flop once more 
upon her paws. (If she crept to his foot at these 
moments, it made her sigh again.) 

A second fainting fit, followed by a visit from the 
doctor, sent Margaret to bed again. For hours she 
lay inert, too tired to think, only thankful to be at 
home. 

“ This holiday exchange is rather a bore,” Thelma 
said to her one day. “ I like being at home ; and it’ll 
be some stuffy old house ! Mr. Forstall’s a bachelor, 
isn’t he ? What made father think of it ? I call it 
rot having the children here so long ; one simply can’t 
get hold of Dad ! He’s with them all the time ! Now 


190 TANTALUS 

you’re up here and mother’s so busy packing he simply 
lives with them ! 

“ He’s overworked,” said Margaret slowly. 

“ Dear Dad, he’s full of beans.” 

“ Thelma ! ” 

“ What ? ” 

Margaret looked worried : “Be careful what you 
say : I mean, to any one ...” 

“ Whatever-? ” began the younger sister, staring 

owl-like. 

“ Oh, nothing ! ” said Margaret. 

“ In bed, or at breakfast ? ” The speaker was 
Thelma, strolling across the lawn with an arm round 
Margaret’s waist. 

“ Oh, at breakfast,” answered Margaret, “ on the 
table. What have you got, father ? ” 

The two girls stood still in front of the vicar seated 
on a green-painted iron chair in the sun. 

“ What’s that, my dear ? ” 

“ What have you got for to-morrow ? ” 

“ To-morrow ? ” 

“ Why yes ! ” cried Thelma. “ Are you pretending ? 
What have you got for mother ? ” 

Hilda, arriving at this moment, asked : 

“ What are you looking so surprised about ? ” But 
instead of answering her uncle caught her against his 
knees and began to tickle her, and the two girls strolled 
away. 

“ What is it, uncle ? ” persisted Hilda, “ you did look 
funny ! as if, as if your smile was tumbling off. Was it 
a surprise ? ” 


TANTALUS 


191 

“You run along, d'you know it’s your aunt's birthday 
to-morrow ? " 

“ Where are you going, Uncle Dan ? " Her uncle 
was staring at his watch, he scratched a corner of his 
forehead. “ Yes," said Hilda ; “ it's six o'clock "— 
but he seemed not to hear, he had hurried away so fast 
to the house, and a few minutes later she saw him ride 
off on his bicycle. 

“ Father ! " called Margaret across the lawn. 

“ He's just gone out of the gate." 

“ Did somebody come ? " 

“ No, uncle went off in a hurry. Why ? What is 
it ? You're frowning-? " 

“Oh, leave off chattering, Hilda-" 

“ I won't leave off! Where’s uncle gone ? Thelma ? 
Is it a joke ? You're laughing ! " 

“ I believe he had," Hilda heard Margaret say, and 
watched the “ grown-up " wrinkle her brow and open 
her eyes as though at something extraordinary. 

“ What a lark ! " cried Thelma. 

“No," said Margaret. “ I think it's simply-" 

the word wouldn't come, but her face said for her : 
“ disgusting." 

Curiosity bristled through little Hilda as the spines 
of a hedgehog are set for the fight. 

“ Aunt Tilly ? " she cried to her aunt, approaching, 
“ what's up ? " 

“ I thought I saw your father here ? " Aunt Tilly 
asked the girls; “some one wants him-" 

“ He's busy." It was Margaret who spoke. Hilda 
hunched up her shoulders, a way she had, like some 
little witch or elf : 




192 


TANTALUS 


“ Cousin Meg ! ” she cried. “ Why, you know he's 
gone off on his bicycle." 

“ Gone where ? ’’ asked Mrs. Jennifer. 

Hilda loved to watch her cousins’ eyes, it was a 
question whose opened the widest! Cousin Thelma’s 
were so awfully blue, and the lids simply flew apart ; 
Cousin Meg’s were different, they got dark and 
“ starey ’’ ; and Aunt Tilly’s were full of the jumps ! 

“ I think he remembered something,’’ said Margaret 
slowly. 

A few minutes later Hilda sat dangling her legs from 
the lowest bough of the cedar tree. Aunt Tilly had 
hurried away, her cousins stood by the empty chair, 
and though Hilda still listened with “ half an ear,’’ 
what they said was not very interesting. 

“ He thinks of nothing but being out,’’ she heard 
Margaret say. 

“ Being out with them! ” said Thelma. 

“ Heelda ? ’’ Hilda lay flat on the bough, made¬ 
moiselle was coming. “ Have you seen Heelda ? ’’ she 
asked the girls. 

“ Hilda was here a minute ago.’’ 

The little hedgehog spines of curiosity stood up again, 
mademoiselle and Margaret were staring at each other ! 
Yet nothing happened. Hilda sighed. Mademoiselle 
was walking back across the grass, and once more 
Hilda sighed, she felt exactly as if she had seen Margaret 
rude to mademoiselle ; and Margaret hadn’t moved a 
muscle ! It was too difficult, and yet it had come and 
pinched her—lying on the branch above their heads. 
Hilda didn’t like Margaret very much, the latter had 
no sense of humour, she was one of those grown-ups 


TANTALUS 


193 


who always want to teach you something, and who 
don't like being “ sold." If you told Margaret that 
there was an aeroplane, and she looked up from her 
knitting, and you cried “ Yang, Yang," she frowned 
and said it was “ telling a fib " ; if you did it to 
Mademoiselle, she ran after you, and tickled you ; (but 
if you did it to Aunt Tilly, she hunted for ages, and 
couldn't believe it wasn't there !) 

“ This governess is much more of a ‘ sport' than that 
old Miss Woolley ; don’t you like her ? " Thelma asked ; 
Hilda's curiosity bristled suddenly, but Margaret never 
answered. 

“ She doesn't like her ! " thought Hilda; and it 
seemed, at the moment, on the bough of the cedar tree, 
a strange and important discovery. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


By three o’clock on a certain day the vicarage party 
was ready at last! The cab arrived, seeing people get 
into it, Fan tried to leap through the window, and at 
this moment Kate ran forward. 

“You ’aven’t given me th’ inventory-” 

“ Oh, but where is it ? ” 

“ Per’aps you’ve got it in your ’and ? ” 

“ No, umbrella, purse, gloves, my bag-” 

“ Is it in your purse ? ” asked Daniel. 

“ Here, take my bag—somebody. No, one pound 
seven and sixpence, and five pennies, the registration 
cards ; I haven’t got it.” 

“ What am I to do ? ” It was the sort of stupid 
thing that servants say, the sort of thing which flum¬ 
moxed you—after ten days’ packing, and with your 
husband’s eyebrows twitching up and down like 
that . . . 

“ What’s going to happen, auntie ? ” asked the 
children. “ Aren’t we going ? ” 

“ Of course we’re going.” 

“ Well, we shan’t if we don’t hurry ; the train's 
three-ten.” Her husband looked at his watch, he was 
vexed, she knew by his smile. 

“ Daniel, dear ! ” was all she could think of. 

“ Has Madame looked in her pocket ? ” asked 
Mademoiselle gently. Memory came with a horrible 

194 




TANTALUS 


195 


rush, strangling words, and mottling her face like a 
plum ; the inventory was in the pocket of the skirt she 
had on yesterday. 

“ Well, well/’ cried Daniel, when she had explained, 
“ we can post it to Kate-” 

“ But it was my old Scotch frieze ! ” 

“ My dear Tilly ! ” 

“ But don’t you see ? It’s not there ! ” 

‘'Not where ? Do say what you mean ! ” 

“ I mean it’s too old, it’s not, I’ve not, don’t you see ? 
It’s left behind.” 

“ We ought to be gettin’ on, sir,” said Creek, the 
cabman. The vicar clicked his teeth together. 

“ Where d’you leave it ? ” he asked. 

“ It’s packed away.” 

“ Kate, d’you know where your mistress’s skirt is ? ” 

“ I don’t, sir.” 

“ Well, you’ll have to find it; take out the inventory, 
and give it, yourself, to Mr. Forstall. Think, Tilly; 
where had she better look ? You must have some idea! ’ ’ 

In the silence during which Mrs. Jennifer tried to 
think the three children sat and stared anxiously. 
Creek looked at her, too, and she was aware of Kate’s 
round eyes and of her husband’s—dark, and bright, and 
cruel just then. 

“ I put a lot of dresses in the old tin trunk,” she 
faltered, “—but that’s locked up, and I’ve locked up 
the keys—” seeing Daniel’s lip curl down she hurried 
on : “—not the keys we’re taking, dear! The other 
keys, my store cupboard key and all the . . .” 

“ I’ll attend to the matter from Snayle,” the vicar 
told Kate, and to his wife, curtly : “ Get in.” 



TANTALUS 


196 

They drove out from under the vicarage trees so fast 
that the boys were bumped together ; Daniel looked at 
his watch, Creek cracked his whip, Mrs. Jennifer’s mind 
felt squeezed. Was the skirt in the old tin trunk ? 
She knew her sealskin jacket was. Thelma’s old 
racquet, a quilted satin bed-jacket made by Aunt 
Milly, a pair of broken fur slippers—all these, with her 
Paisley shawl, and that pair of embroidered pyjamas 
(won at a lottery sale to help the Zulus), all these she 
could see, and somehow could not get rid of ! They 
hung in her thoughts like clothes on a line clogging what 
lay beyond. 

“ It might be in the cupboard in the attic ? ” she said 
once, but no one answered. 

Thie children understood very well that “ uncle ” was 
angry with “ auntie.” They liked uncle best, and 
unconsciously took up his attitude : they stared at 
their aunt, and when she looked up, stared away; 
they wouldn’t speak to her, only whispering to their 
uncle : 

“ Shall we catch the train ? ” 

“ I trust we shall,” he answered. And they did, but 
“ only just 1 ” He had to shove them in one on another, 
Claude hoisted up over Hilda’s head; auntie panting, 
quivering like Fan ! 

“ Thank goodness ! ” cried their uncle, when the 
train had started ; and Mademoiselle just whispered: 

“ Same ! ” 

Mademoiselle and uncle had a joke, it seemed; when 
she said “ saved ” he forgot to be vexed. 

“ How I wish I had the girls ...” their aunt kept 
saying; Margaret had gone back to France (looking 


TANTALUS 


197 

very pulled down), and Thelma was on a few days’ visit 
to a school-friend. 

With every mile, now, their uncle’s spirits rose, he 
began to throw up his head like a colt in a field sniffing 
the wind four ways at once, ready to leap and to toss 
that head for joy of space and liberty ! Something- 
young came out on his face, giving his smile a schoolboy 
gleam, so gay—that Hilda buried her face in his vest.. . 

“ It will be all right about the inventory,” Simonne 
leaned across and said to Mrs. Jennifer. Little Claude 
began one of his “ make-up ” songs : 

“ In th’ summer it’s bright and gay, 

In th’ winter it's dark an’ cold. 

In th’ winter there’s nothin’ to do— 

So our hearts grow cold.” 

“ It ought to be ‘ old,’ ” laughed Hilda. 

“ What ? ” asked her aunt. 

“ Hilda shouted ‘ Old ! ’ It ought to be ' old ’ to 
rltyme with ‘ cold.’ Old ! Old ! can’t you hear ? ” 

“ In the summer it’s bright an’ gay . . continued 
Claude. 

It was certainly bright and gay in Sussex, a spring 
“ hot-weather spell ” had set in, trees had suddenly 
burst into leaf, flowers filled the lanes, and on the 
hedges pink may-blossom appeared. The vicarage 
party travelled to Snayle with the windows down and 
full yellow sunlight gilding them. Mrs. Jennifer spoke 
hardly at all, but Daniel made jokes continually; 
everything they saw amused him, he laughed every 
minute. A short journey, ending at a little station 
called “ Snayle Siding,” where a decrepit old fly picked 
them up and, with extreme caution and the smallest 


198 TANTALUS 

expenditure of energy possible, crawled with them to 
the coast. 

Daniel and his wife sat facing the horses (the former 
felt ill travelling backwards) and Simonne and Hilda 
sat facing them ; Claude on his uncle’s knee, Dunstan 
perched on the box. A long gay drive ever deeper into 
the heart of the country, between flat fields, reaching a 
lane which curved as it neared the coast, sinking under 
banks whose crests were blades of corn. The bank was 
thick with young spring grass, and through the grass 
pushed primroses and millions of blue violets, dock was 
thrusting up, and iris leaves, and already the small 
white “ Star of Bethlehem.” Overhead larks sang in a 
fresh blue sky, in the far distance appeared the tamarisk. 

“ Gee-up ! ” the cabman cried. 

They passed a little yellow farm whose thatch was 
gemmed with moss so bright a green it made your 
mouth water ! A smell of cows and dung oozed out, 
Daniel sniffed it up delightedly, there’s nothing like the 
country ! 

. . Wish I could get it for the garden,” said his 
wife, and Hilda laughed : 

“ Oh, auntie ! He says you’ve ‘ not left Hartake 
yet! ’ ” Next moment Mr. and Mrs. Jennifer drove 
up to the rectory. 

Snayle Rectory, like Hartake Vicarage, was planted 
with evergreens ; it had a cold, dark hall filled with an 
atmosphere of temporary residence which had lasted 
two hundred years ; an emanation, in fact, of the desire 
of each new rector that he should soon be gone. If this 
expectation had slowly petrified in the man, the house 
maintained it. 


TANTALUS 


199 


But the garden seemed friendly with its bed of 
pansies, its willow tree, its back avenue of aspens. A 
stout, merry-looldng cook came out to greet them. 

" You’ll rest here ! ” she told the vicar. “ Why, 
master—’e restes all day ! Ho, dear ! Are these your 
little boys ? ” 

“ My nephews-” 

" Well, I never. An’ th’ young lady’d be your 
daughter ? ” 

“ I am their governess.” 

The cook’s eyes became a trifle narrower, one could 
see her judging, summing up. “ Very nice, I’m sure ! ” 
she said pacifically- 

“ And this lady is my wife. Now what’s your 
name ? ” 

“ Smeed. Elizabeth Smeed, called Betsie.” 

" The parish seems small ? ” They were sitting at 
tea, now, in a long, narrow, mud-coloured dining-room 
full of encyclopaedias and prints of sacred pictures. 

“ ’Tis what you might call scattered ; there’s Colonel 
Calloway, an’ Miss Lomax—plays th’ ’armonium now 
th’ organist’s got killed ; an’ there’s Mrs. Minnew—very 
nice, an’ Mrs. Skinner at th’ farm. Ye’ll ’ave ‘ hot 
lunch ’ on Sunday ? Th’ master never ’ad it ’til th’ 
missus died, but now I give it him, why shouldn’t ’e ? 
So I don’t go to church till Sunday night. Roast 
mutton ? Now, I’ll wager the gen’leman likes treacle 
tart ? ” 

“ Right ! How d’you know ? ” 

“ There’s a treacle-pudden’ eye an’ there’s an eye for 
’errin’-salad. The lady’s one for suet, the young 
lady ? ” Betsie paused ; her eyes, like little bees, 




200 


TANTALUS 


went burrowing into Mademoiselle, seemed to nibble at 
the girl, flying from her dark, sliding hair to her short 
straight nose, from her thin eyebrows to her small lips, 
then to her little chin, her neck, the pretty “ foreign ” 
blouse she wore, the flower Daniel had given her at the 
door : and on this flower they rested, black bees sipping 
honey from a hyacinth ! “ Ah ! ” said Betsie, “ she’d 

be one for ' frisiky ’ ! ” (fricassee being considered a 
delicate, delectable, high-class dish, and Betsie’s manner 
conveying as much). 

“ And what do I like ? ” cried Hilda. But Betsie 
and the new vicar were exchanging smiles ; he was 
pleased, and Betsie was tickled at tickling him ; old 
shepherds look at their sheep like that: “ Oh, yes ! ” 
this look says, " gambol and leap ! I’ll watch ye at 
it—but th’ end of ye all’s cold mutton ! ” 

“ I hope she can cook,” Mrs. Jennifer murmured 
abstractedly when Betsie had left them; Daniel’s 
sharp glance said, “ Cook ! What d'you know about 
cooking ? Have we ever had a cook who could 
4 cook ’ ? ” 

Mrs. Jennifer (though she never interpreted looks) 
immediately felt guilty. She bent her head, and began 
making crumbs of the gingerbread, then remembered 
that she was waiting for something ; her patient smile 
came back, she looked up and asked : 

“ What are we going to do next ? ” 

“ Oh, stroll and explore.’ 

“ It’s years since I’ve been to the sea ! ” Her face 
still had that look when she went to unpack, the happy, 
rather pathetic look of one lost in the past, still looking 
forward while the present goes by. 


TANTALUS 


201 


The present was very arduous, and by degrees im¬ 
pressed itself through an aching back, tired feet, 
flushed face, confused and addled brain. If she stood 
still a moment a noise of engines and old cab-horses 
encompassed her, filling each drop of blood, and beating 
in her ears ; while scattered thoughts popped out and 
ran like rabbits, but from nowhere to nowhere in an 
endless circle : in the middle of unfolding Daniel’s 
dressing-gown, the words “ six knives and forks ! ” 
came starting out. For ten whole days she had been 
“ scurrying,” he had been in such a hurry to get off! 
She had never seen him, never before in all their married 
life, so eager to get away. He had telegraphed to 
Forstall! (reply paid !) and her little anxious questions 
about waiting for the summer for a real holiday he had 
brushed aside in a manner, well! Mrs. Jennifer believed 
that husbands ought to rule their wives, that they were 
the “ head ” of the wife as “ Christ is the head of the 
Church.” She had always liked her husband’s cer¬ 
tainty and self-assurance as one admires virtues 
obliterated in oneself ; but these last days he had been 
almost tyrannical! “It’s Easter,” she had tried to 
say. After Lent and Easter clergymen are always 
tired, yet he had seemed so full of spirits ! for the last 
three days he had done nothing but laugh !—or shut 
himself up. At table there had been jokes, he had 
looked so well! and she had felt so tired, so tired. 

She had finished now ; with her hat on and carrying 
grey suede gloves, Mrs. Jennifer walked about opening 
doors, but the rooms she looked into were empty. All 
at once, sitting down in a large, mouldy study, between 
an enormous telescope and a globe on broken legs, the 


202 


TANTALUS 


same strange tears which had attacked her at sight of 
her husband’s smile when she told him about the 
soldier, burst up again, large, slow lukewarm, they 
trickled down her cheeks. Mrs. Jennifer had never 
felt so lonely. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


Her husband and the governess standing side by side 
just then were looking out to sea ; chatting and laugh¬ 
ing they had come to the coast, silenced suddenly by 
beauty spread below them they had stepped down 
crumbling cliffs on to the shingle. 

" Good ! ” Daniel had said. 

“ Merveilleux! ” the girl had answered. Something 
soft and adoring in the tone of her voice, as if life in her 
heart had leaped out to life made him feel almost 
jealous. When they had walked down an acre of firm 
yellow sand, he stood still suddenly ; he might lose her, 
he felt, if they went to the edge of the sea. 

It was a silent, full spring day come to its hour of 
tranquillity. Waves had risen and washed the stones, 
had lazily heaved the wet weed up, the breeze had 
lazily chased the foam, birds had squabbled, shrieked, 
fed, satisfied themselves again ; in the earth beyond 
the tamarisk thin threads of wheat had grown ; then 
gently, insidiously, all movement had ceased. The sea 
had turned upon itself and left the stones, the waves 
had been sucked back into one blue mass which simply 
rocked a little. The gulls walked singly, sunning them¬ 
selves, one white-breasted bird would stand for a 
minute staring with black eyes. Tiny shells which had 
rolled in the water now lay at rest, rose pink and longer 
shaped ones—mauve and yellow, and little, empty pale 

203 


204 


TANTALUS 


green crab shells. Larks sang. And below lay the 
stillness of life satisfied. It was spring’s vision of 
summer ! Nothing parched and arid yet, nothing of 
the tree, which has flowered itself away to wilted 
emptiness ; only a caressing warmth, a young, fresh, 
cloudless sky, an almost waveless sea, and miles and 
miles of smiling, golden sand. 

The children were soon gone, absorbed by all this 
sunlight, running, shouting, from treasure to treasure ; 
they could be seen carrying the last discovery to 
show each other, and at once discovering something 
new ! 

“ C’est grand ,” said the girl. Daniel thought, 
“ She’s dropped into French ! She’s moved, have I 
ever moved her ? ” A great wish to “ move ” her came. 
He put his arm through hers, seeing the colour deepen 
on her neck, he said : 

“ Ah ! I wish I were young ! ” She caught hold of 
his hand. “ You, my child, can spread your wings ! ” 
She squeezed his fingers, and that little action seemed 
to say, “You see to whom I fly ! ” 

For a while they were silent; the sea, the sky, the 
lark’s singing, the distant shouts of childish joy, the 
wide, calm beach were all caught away in a glamourous 
nothing ! 

“. . . If I had met you before,” said Daniel suddenly, 
in a voice which shook in spite of himself, “ would . . . 
would you have married me ? ” 

This was the furthest he had ever gone, and when she 
whispered : “ Yes ! ” her eyes, raised to his, held the 
same big look she had given the sea. But Daniel’s 
burned with a warmer light, his temples, too, were 


TANTALUS 205 

flaming : if he had kissed her it would have been the 
most fervent moment of his life. 

She gave a little sigh as if she had missed that kiss 
(suppressed because he dare not give it), and said in 
French : “I am forgetting everything ! Where are the 
children ? I must go quickly back, I have not yet 
unpacked. Enfin! ” 

“ We have six weeks,” said Daniel. 

Now the lark’s singing was heard again, the blue sea 
took its body . . . 

“ What an evening ! ” 

“ Look at the water ! ” 

“ What little gipsies the children have made of 
themselves ! ” 

“ Mon Dieu ! Heelda ! What have you done with 
your hair ? ” 

“ Oh, it fell in a pool.” 

“ Look ! ” cried Dunstan. “ Look what I’ve 
got-” 

Next moment three pairs of hands were thrust out, 
and Daniel, his cheek bent close to Simonne’s, had to 
examine octopus and jelly-fish, cockleshells and shrimps, 
and ribbons of wet weed. 

“We must go back, but quick ! ” 

“ Bother going back ! Why can’t we stay here 
always ? ” 

Daniel and Simonne looked at each other, at that 
happy hour—when the doors are open a look is enough. 
The first little gnats were humming when the party 
turned back : the sea-lane had a low hawthorn hedge 
so clipped that it grew gnarled and thick, crusted with 
lichen and bound by small dwarf ivy ; on either side of 



206 


TANTALUS 


it lay fields of corn. Big bumble bees sailed toward the 
sun; one, booming into Hilda’s face, got tangled in her 
hair ! The children laughed and Mademoiselle released 
the bee, and Daniel, watching, heard the gnats and 
smelled the queer, disturbing scent of may-blossom. 
No wonder the spring world reels a little ! Just then a 
blackbird called, and from a chestnut tree flew out, 
ahead of them, a very dare-devil, with gleaming coat 
and orange bill and all the appetite of spring in that 
one call! This chestnut grew at the end of the lane ; 
passing under its shadow Daniel thought: “ I must be 
careful, careful . . but still the scent of may-blossom 
pursued him. It was no use ! Better be happy ; as if 
in answer came a laughing, mocking whistle from the 
blackbird. 

Claude was the least (outwardly) affectionate of the 
three children; he often looked at people with a cynical, 
sly smile (which haunts some children suffering from 
gastritis) : he was the most independent, liking his own 
company and making up stories and songs. They were 
nearly all sad but, as it were, unintentionally—simply 
sung that way, as leaves fall off a tree, and their tunes 
turned and twisted much as leaves turn in the wind. 
But Claude observed things, sometimes he disconcerted 
people with his observations ; sometimes what he had 
seen came out long afterwards as one of his sad songs. 
So it was Claude who, three minutes after their return, 
standing in front of his aunt, said : 

“ You’ve been cryin’. Why ? ” 

To this awkward question there was only one 
answer : 

" It’s bedtime ! ” 


TANTALUS 207 

Claude's little face wrinkled up in a monkeyish 
smile : 

“ I saw Katie cry," he said, “ when her young man 
went away ! ” 

Five minutes later the room was empty, only Claude’s 
rather flat, minorish voice could still be heard : “In 
th’ summer it’s bright an’ gay ...” 

“ Come down to the sea with me, Daniel,” begged 
Mrs. Jennifer ; she had followed him into the hall. 

“ But I’ve just come back. All right. Very well.” 

Daniel had felt a conscience prick, he was still very 
sorry ; and being more of a psychologist than his wife, 
he understood her anxiety better than she did. She 
was anxious now to wipe out an odd feeling of shock ; 
like Fan, now trotting at their heels, she wanted to make 
amends for things she had never done because her 
master, there, had frowned ; and as with simple people 
the way to make amends is to talk—she chattered. 

“ I’ve been so tired,” she told him, “ I really didn’t 
know what I was doing ! This evening—unpacking. 
How still it is ! ” 

“ We’re in the country, dear.” 

“ I mean, I only meant, it’s a still day.” 

“ There’s no wind.” 

“ It’ll be hot to-morrow, Daniel: d’you see the 
distance muffled up ? I wonder if I ought to have 
brought thinner clothes ? . . . Oh! There’s a 
bumble bee ! ” 

“ My dear Tilly ! But you’ve seen heaps this year 
at Hartake ? ” 

“ Well, but I’m so busy I’ve no time to look. I can 
smell something—what is it ? Pick me a bit.” At 


TANTALUS 


208 

the edge of the cliff Mrs. Jennifer stood still suddenly : 
“ What a flat coast! ” she remarked, and was then 
astonished when her husband seemed unwilling to go 
farther : “ We must go right to the edge ! ” But half¬ 
way down, as if her courage too, had failed, she halted. 

The sea had slipped out almost to the line, and the 
last half-mile of sand lay wet and dull; a faint haze 
had drained away all colour. The sands were lonely. 

Daniel wanted to speak, but standing where he had 
stood an hour before in ecstasy, a feeling came that his 
wife was too stupid ! That life was too bitter, that . . . 
that anything might happen, and he was silent. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Strolling in the garden next morning, Daniel 
thought: “ It’s very pleasant to be out of harness ! ” 
for after Betsie’s description of her master’s activities : 
“ ’E gets to church of a Sunday an’ sleeps all the week,” 
this was what the “ exchange ” amounted to. Last 
year he would have pumped up his bicycle and ridden 
round to rouse up “ country slackers,” but this year he 
said : “ It’s interesting to see natural conditions.” 

There’s a saying : “ Hornham Church for antiquity, 
Sleaping for beauty and Snayle for perfection.” The 
first thing Daniel did next day was to take a key, four 
inches long, and go to visit the perfect church. It was 
quite close on a slight elevation, so that the churchyard 
drained into the rectory garden. He was delighted 
with what he saw. The tower was “ Norman,” the 
structure of the church “ Early English,” pulpit and 
font “ fourteenth century.” This little church was a 
“ gem.” He walked twice round outside peering at 
lancet windows with their splayed stone edges. He 
found the niches where the drawbridge had been in 
days when the tower was a fortress. But the perfect 
church was cold inside, it smelt faintly of paraffin, and 
was dark and empty ; Daniel soon came out again. 
The early buttercups were better suited to his mood, 
they marched on every mound and lapped the old 
stone walls, and over them sailed bumble-bees and busy 

T. 209 p 


210 TANTALUS 

working-bees ; and suddenly he saw the first blue 
butterfly. 

On Sunday, with mixed feelings, Daniel noticed 
Simonne's presence in church. She was wearing a 
shady hat and a blouse of stuff so thin he knew no name 
for it—black yet half transparent, and worked on yoke 
and cuffs with silver beads—in her velvet skirt, and with 
a scarf (a wisp of smoke !) she had come to look at him ? 
Tilly had not yet got into summer clothes, she still wore 
that hot, cow-coloured coat and skirt, which came out 
regularly from October till June. At the harmonium 
sat a little old woman whose pointed bonnet was tied 
with strings ; she had a large, pale, tranquil-looking 
nose, and she played with precision and no meaning 
whatever. The choir was larger than the congregation, 
a mixed one made up of pink-faced, blue-eyed boys and 
a few large females ; one, Daniel could hear, had a note 
like a Channel fog-horn. These people (to a casual 
observer), might have come together to perform some 
little drill impersonally in perfect order, having practised 
it together all their lives. 

Daniel had intended a nice country sermon from the 
text, " Let God arise and let his enemies be scattered/' 
but the presence of the governess made him uncertain ; 
the Gospel, too, . . the good shepherd giveth his 
life for the sheep ... he that is an hireling and not 
the shepherd . . . seeth the wolf coming, and leaveth 
the sheep and fleeth. . . . The hireling fleeth, because 
he is an hireling . . /’ "I'm the hireling,” thought 
Daniel—" Who knows, perhaps always ? ” And he 
preached from the Gospel for the Sunday before : 
" Peace be unto you.” 


TANTALUS 


211 


“ Peace be unto you,” he said to Colonel Calloway 
and to Miss Lomax and to Mrs. Minnew. Standing in 
that fourteenth-century pulpit in that nearly empty 
perfect church a feeling came that, after all, his girl 
watcher was not criticising words, she was looking at 
him as she knew him ; and his heart grew light, words 
seemed to matter less, so that outside again his wife 
told him he had preached a “ perfect ” sermon. He 
looked at Simonne, she was staring at the buttercups. 

“ It was very good of Mademoiselle to come,” said 
Mrs. Jennifer doubtfully, “ she thought that people 
might say things in the village if some one living at the 
rectory didn’t; but I don’t like her doing anything 
against her conscience. It’s considered a great sin by 
her Church, isn’t it ? ” 

“ There’s a modem sect with a new religion ” (the 
words were twisted out of Daniel), “ who no longer fear 
authority.” 

Mrs. Jennifer felt nervous. “ I only meant,” she was 
beginning, when Simonne, looking intently at the vicar, 
said : 

“ It must be difficult.” 

“ What ? ” asked Mrs. Jennifer. The vicar answered 
the governess : 

“ You’ve seen for yourself ? ” 

“ I am sorry.” 

“Now you understand a little ? ” 

“ But very much ! ” 

“ There, there ! ” Daniel was nodding and smiling at 
the girl. Mrs. Jennifer had that vexed, scattered 
feeling which fills the heart of an old hen arriving late 
and seeing every morsel gobbled by another quicker 


212 


TANTALUS 


bird. Her mind had run a great race to understand 
the purport of these words as they were uttered. That 
“ difficult ” from mademoiselle wiped out by Daniel’s 

strange, inexplicable, “ You’ve seen-? ” And then 

at once, in such a soft quiet whisper, “ I’m sorry,” from 
the girl. What was she sorry about ? All this time 
Mrs. Jennifer was turning her face from one to the other, 
her eyes projecting now at Daniel, now at mademoiselle, 
she had meant to go indoors, but instead walked with 
them to the sea. 

But there were golden hours that week snatched at 
high tide, seated on stones warm in the sun, curiously 
comfortable, with one’s back against a breakwater ; 
Simonne, lying on her chest, chin on hands, hat off, 
hair blowing in the wind, forehead burning biscuit 
brown, and now and then looking up at him. High 
tide ! 

"‘I’m an old fool,” he tried to say to himself, but 
holiday mood prevailed. He stretched his hand out 
on the stones one day, for a moment it lay curved and 
empty, then hers slipped into it; her face was bent, 
her body rigid. 

“ When you go back ...” said Daniel, “ take care 
of yourself, my dearthe hand was withdrawn. “ Why 
on earth did I mention her going ? ” he thought. But 
after a moment’s silence : 

“ What d’you think of my brother-in-law ? ” 

“ He is fond of his children.” 

“You mean he comes to the schoolroom ? ” 

“ He joins our walks sometimes.” 

“ The devil! ” thought Daniel (but she was staring 
at the stones with a still face and bright cheeks) ; 



TANTALUS 


213 


whatever he said could be so well applied to himself, 
that he could say nothing ! And yet phrases jostled 
in his head : “ There are men and men . . . some men, 
my dear . . .” All he did, however, was to take his 
watch out, look at it with his eyebrows raised, and 
stroll away. Alone in the little avenue a tingling 
feeling which had vexed him passed, and emptiness 
took its place : there would be, he felt, an everlasting 
emptiness until he had, well, kissed her again ! And 
then, disgusted with himself, he went and buried his 
head in the Reverend Forstall’s study. There was a 
very old, low, deep armchair set back to the light and 
painted, once, dark brown; the pink cretonne covering 
was worn to the colour of oak apples. The whole chair 
creaked horribly, but was comfortable, it produced, as 
from habit, a state of vacuity, nursed and hushed by 
the mouse-quiet room, so that resting there a soul 
might know “ security/’ 

The vicar’s mind went blank, there remained only a 
pumped sensation, as though he had run. Then slowly 
from some box or drawer or cupboard crept out the 
smell which hangs in autumn round the coats of careful 
women, the smell of the old moth killer : Fels-Naptha ! 

“ It’s not my fault! ” thought Daniel suddenly, 
“ It’s not the girl’s : I’ve been secretly turning from 
Tilly for years. Every time she takes her muff out, 
every time I go to kiss her—that! or camphor 
or carbolic soap. No, it’s been too strong for 
me . . . ! 

“ Uncle ! ” 

“ My dear ? Why, I believe I’ve been asleep. What 
is it ? ” Daniel smiled at his little niece. 


214 


TANTALUS 


“ It’s only that we’ve got a picnic ; it’s going to be 
such fun ! And Mdlle. Simonne thought you’d come ? ” 
“ What says your aunt ? ” 

“ I can’t find her.” 

“ Um ! Believe I ought to be out with her ! ” 

“ Oh, never mind,” cried Hilda. “ Come in the 
barn.” 

He found the picnic party seated in an old bam 
which belonged to Snayle Rectory. Hens strutted 
about outside ; inside stood a high wooden corn-bin, a 
mouldy horse-collar hung from a nail; the floor was 
half-covered with hay stored there for “ Shadrach,” the 
Reverend Forstall’s donkey—as old and grey a man as 
he ! The whole place smelled at once sweet and musty, 
a mixture of clover, toadstools, bracken and dried 
manure. From inside one could see the yard, the 
kitchen door, the beginning of the little avenue of aspen 
trees, and one fine beech whose silvery trunk was 
covered with round grey marks as though sealed by the 
weather. 

Simonne was laughing. 

“ Holiday time ! ” said Daniel. 

He had in front of him a brown kitchen teapot, a 
plate of buns, a plate of sandwiches (Betsie’s contribu¬ 
tion to the stolen picnic) and Simonne in a deep blue 
linen frock; he rubbed his hands murmuring his 
favourite : “ Excellent! ” 

(Why spoil a holiday ?) 

“ We have not a cup for M’sieu.” 

“ Go on ! Mademoiselle ! Uncle Dan, she’s pulling 
your leg ! ” 

“ Heelda ! ” 


TANTALUS 


215 

And then Hilda, a good mimic and gay as a poppy in 
a little scarlet sweater and very short serge skirt : 

“ Ma’mselle’s lovely ! She says it ought to be ‘ pull 
the foot ’ ; ‘ pull the leg ’ is so Engleesh ! ” 

“ That’s a new frock, Ma’mselle ? ” 

" I made it yesterday.” 

" Oh, M’amselle’s been sewing like the devil.” 

“ Heelda ! ” 

“ What’s it made of ? ” There’s no great harm in 
rubbing the stuff of a skirt between finger and thumb, 
but what a queer world of sensation ! Close to her, 
close on the warm, scented hay, in his hands a bit of 
her dress, and in that action intimacy. If only the 
children would go away ! 

“ It’s the colour of milkwort,” he heard himself 
saying. 

“ It is durable,” she answered. 

“ Swiss stuff ? ” his hand lay on her hip. 

“ But yes.” 

Daniel smiled, a happy, lost feeling came over him, 
as though conscience had been smothered in a double 
feather bed. The sun shone on his ankles. Fan 
breathed on him long sighs of love, white butterflies 
tossed over the yard. 

“ An hour like this makes up,” he murmured once 
(the children had run off to play). “You know, you’ve 
changed since I first met you.” 

“ Monsieur, too.” 

“I, well, ‘ falling in love ’ at my time of life ! ” 

“ I too.” Said passionately, it would have touched 
him less than spoken in such a whisper. 

“ My dear ! Take care, take care ! ” 


216 


TANTALUS 


“lam not f right ened.” 

The palms of Daniel’s hands grew moist. Aloud he 
said: 

“ No, no . . but felt as though he might float 
through the roof. 

And at this moment a shadow fell on him, a young 
hard voice exclaimed : “ What! . . . What on earth 
. . . ? ” and looking up, the vicar saw his daughter 
Margaret. 


CHAPTER XXX 


“ My dear girl! How, why, what, eh ? ” Daniel 
was vexed with himself for speaking in this flurried way, 
but he couldn’t help it. 

“ All right ! don’t startle mother. I fainted again, 
that’s all: had to go up before the Medical Board and 
got turned down for a bit.” 

Margaret shook hands with the governess. “ Where’s 
mother ? ” she asked. 

“ Out, out,” Daniel answered breezily. Simonne 
passed a cup of tea ; Margaret, leaning against the 
corn-bin, drank it slowly : she looked thoughtful. 

“ Were you not sorry ? ” Simonne was asking. 

“ Yes. One hates to break down.” 

“You must rest yourself.” 

“ Begun bathing, father ? No ? Now I’ll go and 
unpack. What room-? ” 

“ Betsie’ll tell you ; through that side door.” 

When Betsie at last left her alone, Margaret felt that 
depression of tired nerves which acts like a lift going 
down with all our hopes. She was trained enough to 
know the symptoms, but once more she sighed ! She 
had looked forward to this homecoming, and yet, in the 
barn, she had felt like a stranger arriving. 

“ But I’ll get close to him here,” she thought of her 
father. “ He’s changed. He’s tired, of course. It’s 
the war.” Arriving so suddenly to-day, she had felt 
217 





2l8 


TANTALUS 


the change. What was it ? Now in the strange room, 
in a strange house, apprehension, vague, oppressive, 
weighed on her. The governess ? Impossible ! And 
yet ? She had half-forgotten her father’s visits to the 
schoolroom in the rush of life out there ; if Simonne’s 
face recurred in dreams it was soon driven away by 
fresh anxieties—hospital, suspense about her own case, 
increasing pressure ; while the medical examiner had 
filled her waking thoughts those last few days. Then 
had come a journey taken by her in a state half-numb, 
half-sleeping, with just a sense of coming rest. 

She had walked along new, pretty lanes, at last, to 
this seaside rectory, and had entered without ringing ; 
the rooms had been empty. Upstairs and down she 
had searched, and then the kitchen. 

“ The vicar’s in th’ barn wi’ Mamozel,” a stout, jolly¬ 
looking cook had said : “ out that way, ’avin’ tea ; a 
picnic, bless ’im ! ” 

“ But where’s my mother ? ” 

“ She ain’t a one for frivolities,” this cook had 
replied ; “ she’s ’avin’ a ‘ duty-tea’ somewheres. You 
go along an’ give ’em a surprise.” 

Even then ? “I’m tired,” she had said to herself, 
and had walked straight out to the barn. The sight of 
her father sitting by the governess had been a shock 
followed by a rush of shame ; it was wicked to “ think 
things ” ; and she had turned at once to an everyday 
fact: “ Don’t startle mother ! ” But it was her father 
who had looked startled—startled and embarrassed. 
The word had found itself, and now her heart felt 
heavier. 

“ Embarrassed.” How still and quiet that church 


TANTALUS 


219 


tower looked ; so safe, so old ! This room was larger 
than her own at home ; it had the queer blind look of 
rooms not lived in, as though the spirit in it slept for 
ever. “ I must unpack,” thought Margaret; but, 
instead, sat down. When you felt faint the best thing 
was to keep quite still. “ I’ve done too much to-day ; 
to-morrow it'll be all right.” “ Frivolities ” the cook 
had said—that fat old cook had winked ! 

“ Oh, father ! ” But no, it was nothing. For a few 
minutes Margaret banished thought. 

Some one tapped on her door ; pre-knowledge of the 
French girl’s presence there made her face burn. 

“ Come in,” she said. 

“ I’ve brought you some hot water.” 

“ Thanks.” 

“ Would you not like to go to bed ? One moment and 
I shall get you a hot bottle.” 

But Margaret felt she must go down ; she could not 
rest without assurance, reassurance. By looking at 
her father’s handsome, clever face, she would prove to 
herself . . . and then at sight of him assurance ran 
away. 

“ What’s the matter, Meg ? ” he asked her presently. 

“ I’m going to bed,” she answered. 

“ You’re tired out, my dear,” he told her kindly ; 
“ of course you are ! ” 

An impulse came to put her arms round him ; their 
faces were brought close together. “You do believe 
God watches us ? ” she whispered. A question startling 
both of them, and quickly covered by his kiss, his smile, 
her little answering smile. 

Five minutes later she was in her room again, un- 


220 


TANTALUS 


dressing, with that rather shamefaced thankful feeling 
which follows the unusual. Those words had drawn 
them close, at any rate. And they might make him 
think in case there was—was anything ; though, of 
course, there wasn’t ? But somehow Margaret rather 
dreaded seeing her mother ; she was too tired to wonder 
why, it simply lurked below the silence of her bedroom. 
When she tried to sleep, she listened : had her father 
gone out of doors, or was he downstairs in the drawing¬ 
room still ? The children she could hear playing some 
war game with loud whoops and cries. The governess 
wasn’t with them ? No other sound at all. The 
oppression of weak health lay hard on Margaret. Lying 
in bed, the thought occurred : had she been led here 
for some reason ? 

Some one knocked. 

“ Come in ! ” she called. 

The old cook entered with a cup of Bovril. “ Dearie 
me, you are took bad ! ” said Betsie. “ Well, I never ! 
An ’orspital nurse, an’ all! It must be an aggravatin’ 
of your instincts.” 

“ It’s very stupid of me.” 

“ You’ve a-stood upon your legs too much, I shouldn’t 
wonder.” 

“ Well, one’s on the go-” 

“ That’s it! On the go till ye’re gone. That was 
your father’s complaint in ’is big parish, I under¬ 
stand ? ” 

“Yes, it’s a busy parish.” 

“ Then ’e’s a-come to the right place. There’s 
nothin’ to keep ’im from enjoyin’ of hisself at Snayle.” 

Margaret felt it necessary to tell this comic-looking 



TANTALUS 221 

cook that her father was devoted to his little niece and 
nephews. 

“ He restes now,” said Betsie presently. “ Ho, yes, 
*e restes now. You ’ave a nap an’ wake up well, now, 
there’s a lamb.” 

“ Margaret ? ” 

Margaret sat upright in bed, and Betsie hurried out 
like a balloon blown gently through the door. Mrs. 
Jennifer came in. 

“ My darling child ! I’ve just met Hilda at the gate. 
Where’s your father ? ” 

“ Mother dear ! ” 

“ Hilda says you’re ill ? ” 

“ It’s just a touch of nerves. I’ll be all right. Sit 
down and tell me all about yourself. Where were you 
when I came ? I looked for you.” 

“ I had to return a call, dear.” Silence all at 
once ; an odd third presence closing the doors of con¬ 
fidence, causing faces to mask themselves. Was Mrs. 
Jennifer conscious of it ? Margaret’s feeling of fear 
increased. Here was something between herself and 
her mother, something she could not laugh away, the 
silence of something hidden. And though they talked 
for half an hour, it was a surface conversation which 
gave no relief, but rather closed the spirit. 

Margaret longed to clasp her mother tight and 
whisper : “ Is there anything ? ” Another, deeper 

instinct said : “ She mustn’t guess.” In the middle 
of that surface conversation she clenched her hands 
under the sheet, denying, trampling down suspicion, 
but at the same time her brain would ask : “ Where is 
he ? ” She had to listen, she couldn’t help imagining, 


222 


TANTALUS 


she had no parish round to fit him into here ; and all at 
once she understood the holiday. 

“ Where’s your uncle ? ” her mother asked Hilda at 
this moment. The little girl had tapped upon the door. 
Margaret wanted to say something—anything to put 
off the answer ; but it came. 

“ With Ma’mselle.” 

“ It’s bedtime,” said her aunt. 

“ Let Hilda call them,” Margaret said. “ Don’t you 
go, mother.” 

“ There they are ! ” cried Hilda. 

“ Heelda ! ” 

The child ran out. 

“ Do you still like the governess ? ” asked Margaret, 
and then felt she could have bitten her tongue, which 
feeling frightened her still more. 

“ You’ll get the sunset in your eyes. I’ll pull the 
curtain ; ” her mother crossed the room ; she hadn’t 
heard, perhaps. Margaret didn’t ask again. 

Breakfast was brought up to her in bed next morn¬ 
ing—a relief ; but as the hours passed that wish to 
prove suspicion wrong grew warm. At twelve o’clock 
she dressed. The natural thing would be to stroll down 
to the beach ; more natural still, invite her father’s 
company. Where was he ? Her mother she saw 
digging vegetables. Margaret walked slowly to the 
sea. High tide, thunder of waves on shingle, stones 
piled level with the tops of sea-bleached groins ; but 
here and there the far side of a breakwater revealed a 
sudden drop ; you couldn’t tell till you were close. 
Coming on one unexpectedly, Margaret nearly fell. 
Two people sat below, her father and the governess. 


TANTALUS 


223 

Before she could step back he had kissed the 
girl. 

A big seventh wave broke with a crash. Margaret 
turned, the noise of her footsteps drowned. Without 
knowing where she went, she stumbled through the 
tamarisk ; without speaking to the children she passed 
them and ran on until giddiness forced her to sit down. 
She could not think, she feared to feel, she dared not 
let her mind look back. 

Her father was a sinner. J 

When she got home, tired out, at three o’clock, the 
whole house was in confusion at her absence. 

“ I was on the beach and just forgot-” she had to 

tell her mother. How could her father laugh and joke, 
how could he smile at mother ? Hypocrite ! How 
could he look so fresh and well ? He ought to sit in 
fear. Did he fear ? Margaret looked straight at him 
and he looked back at her. A hard look, such a one as 
had never passed between the vicar and a child of his 
before. Margaret felt more shaken. If he could be 
unfaithful and then stare at her like that ! For a 
moment a timid, lost feeling attacked her ; she was ill. 
Wasn’t it all some bad hallucination ? 

But when Thelma arrived home two days later and 
leaped like a puppy at her father’s neck, the spirit of 
anger woke in Margaret: innocent Thelma kissing a 
father who, behind their mother’s back . . . the 
thought dried up. A sense of sickness came ; he was 
stooping over Thelma tenderly . . . kissing her too ! 

“ What’s up ? ” her sister asked, running in to brush 
her hair that night. 

“ What d’you mean ? ” 


224 


TANTALUS 


“ Oh, I don’t know ! I thought you seemed- 

Is father as keen on the schoolroom ? ” 

“ I say, don’t let’s joke about that any more; 

mother might-” 

“ Margaret! ” 

“ All right.” 

“ But there’s nothing in it ? ” Thelma’s blue eyes 
opened, her face grew rosier, her white teeth gleamed ; 
it all seemed thrilling and unreal and precious. Like a 
“ grown-up ” story. And then to her horror her sister 
began to cry ; long, deep, half-smothered sobs. Some¬ 
thing clutched at Thelma’s heart. 

“ Nothing ! Nothing ! ” her sister tried to say, but 
Thelma thought, “ I’ll watch.” 

“ Oh, Meg,” she said presently; “if only those 
children had gone back to Town ! ” 

And Margaret remembered something which had 
made her laugh when she first heard it: her mother’s 
stammering, palpitating account of what had happened 
on Good Friday : “ Your father, he—he nearly knocked 
me over, he looked distracted ; he held up a whole 
regiment! ” 

Each time she heard her mother call and get no 
answer, or heard Betsie (tranquilly) or Thelma in a 
startled voice make the discovery “ He’s out! ” sus¬ 
picion burned her. Was he under some high break¬ 
water with the governess ? 

Margaret made up her mind to write to her aunt in 
town. 

“ My dear Aunt Maggie (she wrote) : 

“ I’ve had to come home with a touch of ' break¬ 
down ’ ; nothing much, but it makes the house 



TANTALUS 


225 

rather full. Mother has only one servant here, so 
she will do an awful lot herself, and she’s getting 
knocked up. 

“ The children are as good as gold, but I suppose 
you couldn’t just manage somehow to have them 
back ? It does make a lot for her. Claude’s quite 
all right again, and they all look splendid. 

“You understand I’m writing this quite on my 
own, because I feel I must. How’s the League 
getting on ? 

“ My love to you both, 

“ Your affectionate niece, 

“ Margaret.” 

She didn’t speak of what she had done, but when she 
had posted it her heart felt lighter. 

That evening Mrs. Jennifer told Thelma that she had 
accepted an invitation for her to spend these last 
days of the school holiday with her grandmother. 
Thelma was vexed ; Margaret, secretly relieved. As 
for their father, he seemed to notice nothing ! “ Thelma 
gone ? ” was all he said in a tone too careless ; or was 
it heartless ? 


CHAPTER XXXI 


Margaret began to watch her father’s letters ; what 
a lot he received ! So many from parishioners, good 
people who believed in him ! He spoke of them breezily : 

“ Ha ! Tilly, you’ll have to lock me in the study like 
the little boy who wouldn’t learn his catechism. No 
more jam till it’s done. Let’s see how many ? Mrs. 
Wurrell, Miss Cantyre, Mrs. Bigthorn, Wilson, the 
Clutterbucks, Miss Bostock, and Forstall himself ! . . . 
Look here, instead of writing letters let’s hire a wagonette 
and drive to Angmering. We ought to try and get to 
Chanctonbury Ring one day ; you’ve seen it, Tilly ? 
Well, you take the girls and go and visit your old 
nurse ; she lives somewhere this side of Sussex.” 

The wagonette was ordered for a date fixed, and 
Margaret thought: “ He’s only done it to be with her ! 
Oh, it’s too beastly ! He doesn’t care . . . it’s all that 
girl. What’s going to happen ? Oh, what’s going to 
happen ? ” 

Three days later stout Betsie was obliged to leave 
suddenly because her mother was ill, and Mrs. Jennifer 
had to do the cooking. 

'‘You mind the damper, Lord save us ! ” Betsie at 
the back door, large and lopsided, in a heavy black 
alpaca travelling cloak, and on her high head an enor¬ 
mous hat. She carried a string bag with some clothes 
in it and a lobster. 


226 


TANTALUS 


227 

“ The kettle handle’s loose, God bless ye ! ” Smiling, 
she waddled off. 

The rectory kitchen faced east, the sun poured in 
from early morning ; stove-heat (there was no gas) 
spread itself on Mrs. Jennifer until she shone like a 
wooden Judy in a puppet show. She was anxious over 
the cooking, and astonished at the amount of food 
required ; all her time was taken up. Daniel being 
freer than ever, Margaret resorted to strategy. She 
invited the governess to go for a ride that afternoon. 
Simonne looked troubled, but was afraid to refuse. 
They were out from lunch till tea-time. It was too 
hot to talk ; besides, Margaret went so fast ! When 
they got back they found Daniel at the gate. After 
tea, Margaret called him to see a bird’s nest, and kept 
him till supper-time. Simonne’s face had a closed-up 
look that night at table. 

But what use was it to struggle ? “ That girl ” 

simply went to the piano and “ made an atmosphere.” 
That was the only way Margaret could describe to 
herself the spell produced by such intimate playing. 

“ Aunt Maggie hasn’t answered,” she thought while 
she listened : “ What does that mean ? Is she vexed 
with me, or just too busy ? ” And still Margaret 
watched the posts. 

Called at seven next morning, her father lay listening 
to the house waking up, an hour he enjoyed. Tilly 
splashing in the bathroom, a stiff-sounding arpeggio 
from Hilda, Simonne’s “ Allons done ! ” to little Claude, 
and downstairs the squeaky movements of a second- 
rate carpet-sweeper. It was good to lie quiet for a bit, 
one felt these hot spring days ! Margaret . . . Thinking 


228 


TANTALUS 


of her he moved his head as at a lump in the pillow. 
Never mind ! he’d have an hour like one three days 
ago—hills darkening, lambs bleating, birds twittering, 
cuckoo calling under the aspen trees, and Simonne 
strolling by him, silent, smiling, down the little avenue 
towards the sea ! Or a walk like that ramble they’d 
had across fields, fences, ditches, through lanes and 
glades ; she had picked the first wild orchid, a bee had 
followed her. Honey ! . . . 

“ Margaret’s done up,” he was saying next moment 
to Tilly, come back from her bath. 

“ She can’t rest,” sighed Mrs. Jennifer. 

“ No, she’s all over the place like a Jack-in-the-box 
these last few days.” Daniel frowned. “ She’s nervy, 
too. Can’t you keep her in bed ? ” 

“ I’ve tried.” 

“ Well, insist.” 

“ But she won’t.” 

“ Then find her something to do ; something to 
take her mind off; you know what I mean. I think 
that hospital haunts her still.” 

“Yes, that’s just what she looks, ‘ haunted ’ ! ” 

“ She looks thoroughly-” he was going to say 

“ disagreeable,” but checked himself. Tilly was hum¬ 
ming a hymn. Now Mrs. Jennifer was not musical, 
she had no “ voice,” she only sang when she was sad 
(there was a legend that once when her pet dog “ Alex¬ 
ander,” a fat little wire-haired terrier, died of old age, 
she buried him herself in the back garden and sang, 

“ My God, how wonderful Thou art,” for an hour). 
Hearing Tilly hum “ Peace, perfect peace,” Daniel felt 
that his happy hour was over. 




TANTALUS 


229 


He was still further vexed that day by the sudden 
arrival, for a few hours only, of a young connection, 
Michael Reed, a curate, and his wife. They rode up 
on dusty bicycles to pay a duty call, having heard that 
“ Uncle Daniel ” was at Snayle. Mrs. Jennifer was at 
once in agonies over the food question. Daniel (feeling 
irritated) exclaimed, “ Come in ! Come in ! ” 

Michael Reed had hollows in his cheeks, and he wore 
spectacles ; his dark hair suggested adult baptism, it 
was so wet; his nose had a touch of the falcon, but 
his mouth was kind. His eyes seemed fixed on Mount 
Zion. “Now,” he said, “he thought himself ‘fortu¬ 
nate ’ to be under the same roof for a few hours with 
such a man as his uncle, ‘ a man with a reputation.' ” 
And he clasped Daniel's hand again at this point, 
gazing at him until he, too, was placed on Mount Zion. 

Daniel found himself obliged to act a piety he did 
not feel, ecclesiastical vanity (and weakness), for¬ 
bidding any other course before his nephew. All the 
same he was vexed . . . 

Reed's wife, Jessica (who had a chin like the new 
moon) was a tall, gaunt girl, pale and dark, with 
enthusiastic grey eyes, and something bitter about 
the lips. “ Condemned to live in cheap lodgings,” 
thought Daniel, “ with a spirit demanding a bishop's 
palace.” She made a fine wild figure in the drawing¬ 
room, sitting forward, elbow on sharp knee, carelessly 
dressed as if shabby clothes were an offence flung off 
and on ; her dark hair swept sideways, and a profile 
recalling old cameo carvings of the Furies. 

“ Oh, my husband never rests 1 ” Daniel heard Tilly 
telling her. 


230 TANTALUS 

“ I call that splendid ! ” Jessica’s Celtic eyes devoured 
him. 

“ Body and soul, body and soul; that’s the only 
way,” he had to answer. 

At lunch Reed handed Mademoiselle the mustard 
as though confirming her; and it was he who passed 
her plate of pink blancmange. 

“ Do you—er—approve of English life as you have 
observed it ? ” he asked, slightly bowing his head. 

“ The Engleesh are very complicated,” she answered. 

“ But we’re reputed to be a ‘simple ’ race.” 

“ That makes part of your complication.” 

“ Now, this is most interesting—I think I may safely 
say most deeply interesting. In a peacful place like 
this can you see any—er—complexity ? ” 

The girl slid a smile at Daniel, and that one look 
tossed him up to the moon. He wished Reed at 
Jericho ; his family, too, just then ; the young fool’s 
admiration was so palpable ; more, it struck him as 
pitiful, like a baby’s efforts to grasp the light. 

“ That’s a remarkably intelligent girl, sir,” Reed 
declared several times in the study. 

“ Come, let’s talk of your work,” said Daniel drily. 
These hot days sent the blood to one’s head ; he was 
possessed, too, by a sense of hurry ; listening to Reed 
discoursing, he could not keep still, but was continually 
turning and walking about. Just as gusts of wind shook 
the aspen trees, so inner gusts were shaking him. 
“ Make haste,” they said ; then all was still again. 
Why was he fuming ? Reed would be gone ; Margaret, 
too ; there were four weeks ahead. 

“ My dear fellow ! ” he laughed in one of these more 


TANTALUS 


231 


sensible moments, and affectionately slapped the young 
man on the shoulder. To make up for impatience, he 
himself saw the young couple off, walking with them to 
the coast. 

The sun set early in mist that night; it was twilight 
already, and Daniel returning was hungry, but happy ! 
Good to linger when all one wanted lay ahead ! He 
strolled home down the avenue; the trees were 
whispering, “ twittering ” like birds! these heart- 
shaped aspen leaves, so restless, so easily shaken. 

Some one had just walked up to the house. Seeing 
a tall figure stand searching for the bell, Daniel stepped 
forward. 

“ Allow me,” he said gaily, and next moment stood 
stock still. It was his sister-in-law, Maggie. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


“ Well, I never ! What a surprise ! Maggie !— 
how jolly ! Come in, come in ! ” 

There are people who know they are not liked, who 
go about smiling, but telling you with their eyes that 
they know it; who put some invisible pressure on your 
sense of pity, forcing you to cover, if possible, that fact 
of your dislike ; so wherever they go people talk louder 
and repeat false assurances more shrilly. 

“ Tilly better ? ” interrupted Daniel's sister-in-law. 

“ Oh, yes,” said the vicar absently. “ How can I 
warn her ? ” He was thinking of Simonne. “ Here’s 
a surprise ! ” he shouted next moment with all his 
might: “ Hilda ! Dunstan ! Claude ! Guess who’s 
come. Tilly, here’s a visitor ; here’s Maggie ! ” For 
the life of him he couldn’t help his voice shaking a little 
on the last word. 

Mrs. Jennifer’s face, astonished with a sort of troubled 
pleasure, became visible in the twilight. 

“ My dear Maggie ! ” 

“ How are you, Tilly ? ” 

“ I’m very well; I always am. But how—why ? 
Is that your luggage ? ” 

The children came running round, Hilda with a look 
of reproachful surprise (she always showed her heart 
unmercifully, and her heart just then was Uncle Dan’s). 

Daniel was thankful that Simonne did not appear. 

232 


TANTALUS 


233 


That was another effect of Maggie’s ; she clarified 
things like some infallible chemical; all frauds came 
to light if she joined a committee. The vicar had been 
right all his life ; now he was wrong. 

“ So you want to get rid of the children ? ” Maggie 
attacked them all. 

Margaret, who had just come down, turned white and 
looked like fainting. 

“ Aunt Maggie ! ” she faltered. 

The visitor took off her travelling coat, undid her 
veil, and with a pin between her teeth said to her 
sister : 

“ Heard you were knocked up ? ” 

The untruth was apparent, and her aunt, the girl 
understood, was enjoying that; she didn’t believe that 
the letter had been written on her mother’s account; 
she had come to see for herself ! 

She continued maliciously : “ We can’t have Matilda 
knocked up, of course.” Standing there in dark green 
travelling clothes, with a hard felt hat and an orange 
tie, Maggie Buckle’s sarcastic smile said plainly : “ Oh, 
there’s been some hanky-panky, but you can’t get 
over me ! ” 

Margaret Buckle was a “ good woman ” ; that is to 
say, a hard, straight, reliable one, who never let senti¬ 
ment stand in her way, who condemned beggars, 
upheld bazaars, worked strenuously for missions, and 
saw sin everywhere. 

The vicar could find nothing better to do than to 
stroke his chin, saying breezily : “ Supper-time ; if 
Maggie likes to wash her hands-? ” 

At supper it was evident that the strange acid of 



234 


TANTALUS 


Maggie’s presence had penetrated to the schoolroom. 
Simonne came to table looking frightened ; she wouldn’t 
smile, and this made Daniel nervous. Fear—the first 
real fear—is horrible. Remembering the joy of life he 
had felt that very night outdoors, he choked, grew hot, 
and to cover this pressed his sister-in-law to eat, saying 
many times : 

“ War diet ! Another fish-cake ? Ha! our old 
friend the cod ! ” 

“ It’s whiting, dear,” his wife said in an undertone. 

“ Well, well! ” and while he rubbed his hands, 
holding them high over the dish as if blessing it, he 
glanced at Simonne ; a furtive, anxious glance. 

Meantime there was conversation : Maggie’s journey, 
her husband’s digestion, the evening war news, Claude’s 
cough. Looking once at Margaret, her aunt was kind 
enough to say : 

“ Old nursie’s bad again, but the front room in her 
cottage is so awful . . . those beds ! I thought if 
you’d give me a shakedown, Tilly, I can bike over and 
see her from Snayle.” 

Margaret glanced at her father : he sat smiling now, 
his brown eyes deliberately meeting the enemy. 

Mrs. Jennifer had opened an emergency dish of 
bottled gooseberries (brought with her from Hartake); 
“ home-made,” very sour, and so hard that the dull 
green fruit had to be chased round and round the 
plate : it helped restore a flavour of past Sundays to 
the vicar. He looked up once to find Maggie’s eyes 
upon him ; his heart made a queer turn then. 

Maggie had always disliked Daniel: the fact was, 
his astute eyes had a way of making her feel plain. 


TANTALUS 


235 


Now, when she spoke of “ carrying off the children as soon 
as nurse was better/’ her own eyes stung maliciously, and 
Daniel's face grew red. He dared not look at Simonne. 
She slipped away after supper, but the family sat on 
as though afraid to lose sight of each other. They 
could hear some one playing a bourree of Bach's, sweet 
as a flute, but sad, restless, erratic as the aspen-leaves. 

“ Shut that door ! " Daniel ordered brusquely. 

A masterful man doesn’t like to be mastered. Maggie 
had a way of “ getting in under,” a sly word, a look—so 
the vicar talked loudly now, having need of the sound 
of his voice. For once he felt thankful for Tilly's 
stupidity. Maggie could worry away at that source, 
she’d get nothing there. 

“ Would you like a cup of cocoa ? ” Tilly was asking 
Maggie. “ I don’t suppose you had any tea to-day. 
What train did you catch ? Why didn't you let me 
know ? We should have sent; the children would 
have met you.” 

(It seemed to Margaret that her mother asked these 
questions twenty times !) 

“ I made up my mind all at once,” was her aunt’s 
reply; but her mother did not seem satisfied—once 
more she would ask in a voice full of real anxiety : 

“ Why didn't you let us know ? ” 

“ There, that’s enough,” cried the vicar at last. 
“ Leave Maggie alone.” 

“ But if I’d only known-” answered Mrs. Jennifer, 

and passing her hand over her forehead. “ I must see 
about a room.” 

“ Mother’s tired,” said Margaret, but reproachfully, 
when her mother had left them. 



236 TANTALUS 

“Yes, Margaret wrote to me,” Maggie told her 
brother-in-law. 

The vicar looked suddenly, sharply at his 
daughter. “ Why ? ” he asked, and Margaret answered 
quickly : 

" I wrote and said that mother wants a little rest 
and at this her aunt leaned forward, looking satisfied 
as one who hasn’t come for nothing. Perhaps she was 
registering the fact of Margaret’s reticence before her 
father as well as before her mother ? 

“ Capital spot this, for a holiday,” Daniel remarked 
carelessly ; “ just the place for children. They’ll be 
bathing soon. Must get Tilly to bathe ! ” 

“ They won’t bathe unless they do it to-morrow.” 

The vicar’s hands clasped and unclasped suddenly ; 
nobody spoke. Margaret’s heart beat to suffocation 
point. Hope—fear ? Her aunt and her father looked 
at each other. When the latter spoke at last it was 
suavely, in his Sunday voice : 

“ My dear Maggie, but what a pity ! ” 

Her aunt merely shrugged her shoulders, picked up 
gloves and purse, and left the room. 

Alone with his daughter, Daniel looked at her with 
angry eyes, but he was afraid to question her. Margaret 
sat as one lost until the sudden thought of mother and 
aunt together sent her flying from the room. The 
family had dispersed. Daniel was attacked by fear. 
Where were they ? What were they saying ? He felt 
he must be there himself, that his presence alone could 
keep things straight. Maggie suspected. No ! but he 
must be careful, careful. 

Vexed by a feeling of shame, he crossed the hall to 


TANTALUS 


237 

the drawing-room door ; the room was empty, the 
family had gone upstairs. 

That night he said to his wife : 

“ Maggie’s got some idea of taking the children back 
with her—a mistake.” 

His wife did not answer. After a pause he continued : 

“ It’ll spoil my holiday. Claude’ll pick up that 
cough again in Town. I really think—can’t you per¬ 
suade her ? ” And as his wife was silent still: “I 
dislike having plans upset. Besides, when I arranged 
to come to Snayle-” 

“ Oh, I can manage ! ” whispered Tilly. 

“ It’s not a question of ‘ managing,’ ” he retorted 
irritably. “ When I make arrangements, they’ve got 
to be kept. You must drop her a hint-” 

Once more his wife was silent. That she was troubled, 
he could feel. 

The vicar sighed long and fiercely before recom¬ 
mencing : “ My dear Tilly !-” 

The sun shone next morning, and at ten o’clock a 
waggonette appeared. 

“ Oh, impossible to-day ! ” said Daniel at first. 

“ We shall have to pay for it . . .” stammered Mrs. 
Jennifer. 

“ You’d arranged an outing ? ” asked Maggie. 

“ Yes ; it was Daniel’s idea ; he thought—but—but 
I’ve got nothing ready ! What ? ” 

“ Come on ! ” These words from Margaret acted 
like the crack of a whip on some still sleepy horse. The 
vicar understood he must take his part, and at once 
smoothing his brow and smiling, he echoed his daughter’s 
“ Come along ! We’ll get lunch at an inn,” he declared. 




TANTALUS 


238 

“ We can take our larder with us,” suggested Maggie 
tranquilly, “ and cut it up out there.” 

This was done, the cold joint being wrapped in a 
table-napkin and put into an enormous fish-basket 
with bread, margarine, a pot of jam, eggs, and 
radishes. 

“ This is Sussex, real Sussex. What a view ! Eh ? 
I can’t hear. Arundel ? Yes, in the distance. D’you 
see it ? ” 

“ Better than France ! Do Maurice good ! ” 

Daniel felt obliged to nod and laugh and point out 
things, while the waggonette shook them all like peas 
on a drum, with a great rattling, and behind them a 
white plume of dust. Herons flew away from river 
meadows, overhead sailed a hawk ; when the horses 
were eased up a little hill, larks could be heard singing, 
and sometimes the cuckoo. The scent of the hedges 
drawn out by the sun filled their nostrils. Not far 
from Arundel they passed a meadow full of yellow 
water-iris. Butterflies twirled over them ; the children 
laughed and clapped their hands, and this joy of life 
weighed on the vicar, so that at moments he felt a kind 
of physical anguish. Then he had to look at the girl 
opposite, sitting close to little Claude, with a face as 
white as the white road. 

The pleasure party left their waggonette at Ang- 
mering and went to an old chalk-pit by a pool, where 
the chalk, cut in ledges, had been left for years so that 
the whole was roped with pale green “ travellers’ joy.” 
A multitude of jackdaws clung to these ledges like 
tiny flies on a wall. But at one cry the whole army 
would fling themselves into mid-air, wheeling, turning, 


TANTALUS 


239 


dashing straight to earth, and at the last moment 
recovering, sailing up only to precipitate themselves 
again. 

The children were delighted. The jackdaws, in fact, 
were seized upon by every one as a relief. 

A fire was lighted, eggs were boiled, and sitting on 
large slabs of chalk, the party fed. But afterwards 
Daniel dared not wander off with Simonne ! He had 
to watch her stroll away alone. He sat near Maggie, 
with the same feeling that it was safer—safer to keep 
her under his eye, to chat about light nothings, to 
exchange statistics, war news, the last rumour from 
the East. 

“ You’d better have a nap now,” she said presently 
(his wife and Margaret were repacking the luncheon 
things). Before he could move Maggie had gone off 
to join the governess. He could see them side by side, 
not looking at each other, by the river. 

“ Call the children,” Tilly asked ; “ it’s too cold still 
for tea outdoors, although it is so hot.” 

" I dare say it’s all the summer we shall have,” 
remarked Maggie, hurrying back again. “ A good spot, 
Daniel. You ought to row Tilly up the Arun in a 
boat ! ” 

The waggonette dropped them at a little point along 
the coast called “ Draper’s Inch.” Breakwaters there 
had been washed away, tides had hollowed out a bay, 
leaving a promontory of weed-bound groins and a bank 
of shingle. The water broke in ripples with a frothy, 
hissing sound ; streaks of golden light rode unevenly 
across the sea-bed there, in spirals and half-circles, 
interlocked and hovering, vanishing if clouds sailed 


240 


TANTALUS 


near the sun, then all the light came up from its deep 
diving to float pale and clear in patterns like the 
moulding of a snake’s skin. Half-way out across the 
bay black weed lay in an oily streak. The air smelt 
salt; round the green posts the deep blue water lapped 
and gurgled. 

The children took off their stockings, and stumbling, 
laughing, ran down to the sea; the “ grown-ups ” 
sat Turkish-fashion on the shingle. 

“ Take Claude’s hand,” Maggie called after the 
governess. 

“ What a day! what a day! ” remarked Mrs. 
Jennifer (but with an absurd expression of anxiety). 

“ Yes ! we ought to paddle, too,” laughed Daniel. 
Then his sister-in-law said quietly : 

“ I’ve given the girl notice.” 

A little wave rose, showing a clear green line before 
it broke. Maggie spoke now to her sister : 

“ I’m dissatisfied ; have been so for a long time. I 
shall give the girl a month’s wages and let her go.” 

“ Then please understand,” declared Daniel, “ that 
until she finds somewhere to go . . . she remains at 
Snayle as our guest ! ” 

“ Ridiculous ! ” It was Maggie’s sharp exclamation. 

“ Glug-glug ! ” sounded the water round the groin. 

“You spoke, Maggie ? Why not ? ” 

“ Oh ! all right ! . . . I warn you ! ” No more could 
be said in each other’s company ; only Mrs. Jennifer, 
after a deep sigh, began anxiously : 

“ Daniel! . . . Perhaps . . .” 

“ Maggie can do what she likes in her own house, but 
not in mine.” His lips closed. 


TANTALUS 


241 

It was Margaret who broke the next silence, saying 
coldly : “We ought to move.” 

“ Call the children ? ” asked their mother, and turned 
sharply to her brother-in-law : 

“ Don't be absurd, Daniel! You know quite well 
and to her sister : “I want an older woman.” And 
to Daniel again : “ We’ll have to have a little talk.” 

“ Indeed ? ” When the vicar spoke in that thin¬ 
lipped, yet sugared voice, it meant that he was angry. 

The walk back was silent, awkward. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


“You understand ? ” Mrs. Buckle, in a mulberry- 
coloured, high-necked evening dress, had just handed 
an open envelope to Simonne. The girl was standing 
by the drawing-room window ; it was a quarter past 
eight, but Mrs. Jennifer and Margaret were still busy 
cooking. 

“ There’s a month’s wages—you don’t deserve it— 
and the address of a Society in Town : on my recom¬ 
mendation they’ll look after you till you find your feet. 
Take this train directly after breakfast.’’ 

The girl looked up then, and Maggie’s determined 
soul sniffed opposition. “ There’s to be no nonsense,’’ 
she added sharply. 

Simonne was staring at the willow tree. She, too, 
had changed her dress as usual, and stood there in a 
little thin white frock having some indeterminate 
flowery maze on it, blossom, flung together as in a web 
of moonlight. A low-necked frock with short, gathered 
frill at throat and elbow ; simple, becoming. Maggie’s 
lips twitched ; to speak openly revolted her sense of 
family pride, yet what were the girl’s intentions ? She 
surely didn’t take Daniel’s offer seriously ? The 
simplest thing would be to leave herself, and take the 
children and the governess with her, but once more her 
thin lips twitched, her eyebrows drew together, giving 
her eyes a painfully sunken, sad, yet fierce expression ; 

242 


TANTALUS 


243 


she was seeing her husband’s face ! hearing his last 
words spoken with that affected indifference which 
deceives nobody and merely irritates : “ Going to fetch 
the kids ? That’s right.” She could see his weak 
mouth smiling and could hear his heavy breathing : 
“ Fetch ’em back. Good ! ” he had said. She had 
seen the look he had slid round their dark, heavy 
room—like a bird glancing round a cage. 

“ Don’t be ridiculous ! ” she had snapped in sudden 
anger. 

Whatever happened, the girl should not come back 
to Bayswater ! 

In the midst of these preoccupations Daniel’s affair 
had seemed, at first, a joke ; only at Draper’s Inch had 
real anxiety awakened. Was he going to be a fool ? 
And what did one mean by that exactly ? What was 
the girl expecting ? When she, Maggie, quite quietly, 
in the “ no nonsense at all ” manner, had given the 
governess notice in a few words spoken at the river-side, 
she had foreseen no further bothers. Dear Tilly would 
be, of course, surprised ; but one more surprise in a life 
so simple couldn’t matter. That Daniel would dare to 
be such a fool, such a madman—she had never dreamed. 

It was awkward. 

“ I mean it,” was all she could bring herself to say 
to the girl. 

A burnt-amber sun, deepening gradually to quivering, 
Californian-poppy red, sank before their eyes ; in its 
place a ruby-tinted glow held the sky above the Downs. 
This too was fading, spreading out in little ripples which 
suddenly flamed up again, pale scarlet, lit by some 
unseen ray as from a world beyond. The sky between 


244 


TANTALUS 


showed turquoise blue, and now a lilac edge formed all 
along each burning wave ; their reflection, pale apricot, 
bathed Maggie’s face, tinting Simonne’s dress with who 
knows what of golden mystery ; and it was at this 
moment that Daniel walked in. 

“ Supper ready ? ” His nose was immediately 
gilded; the same silence which had grown between 
the women caught him too. He looked at Maggie ; 
she was very ugly in all that yellow light ; it gave her, 
he thought, a witch-like, hawk-like, curious hard look 
that yet had something lofty in it, as an old ruined 
abbey looms on sunlit hills. And the other ? She was 
like a little birch tree leaning on the wind, he could 
hear her breathing ! Should he say anything ? “I 
must see Maggie first,” he thought. And at once a 
mind used to dealing with Assyrian and Babylonian 
mysteries, asserted : " Keep it light, don’t come to 
words at all.” And before he could think any more, 
he had turned and sauntered out. But in the hall his 
head drooped. Must he give in ? 

It was marvellous to feel that he, Daniel, was the 
breeze-life to this little tree ! 

Curse Maggie for an interfering cat ! No, he’d not 
give in. 

In the drawing-room Mrs. Buckle and the girl con¬ 
tinued to stand at the window ; the latter looked down 
at her dress, the former was clearing her throat. At 
last she said in a precise, cold voice, as though each 
word was a dead bud clipped off a twig : 

“ What my brother-in-law said to you on the 
way home to-day was nonsense. You can’t stay 
here.” 


TANTALUS 


245 


Without looking up, only pleating the folds of her 
dress between finger and thumb, Simonne answered : 

“ I am no longer at Ormolu Square/' 

“ What d’you mean ? ” 

" I am dismissed." 

Maggie saw her envelope flutter in the shadows of 
the flowery dress, and felt the pang which follows all 
mistakes. 

“ Nonsense ! ’’ she said vigorously ; “ you’ll do as 
you’re told.’’ 

A bell ringing for supper interrupted her. Poor 
Tilly’s face was red and shining. She had had no time 
to change. The soup was awful. The cold mutton 
dry, and Margaret had put no sugar with the salad 
dressing. 

“ We shall have to light the lamp,’’ Mrs. Jennifer 
kept saying, but no one fetched it; very low all heads 
were bent over their dark plates. In this twilight 
sparse conversation seemed more natural. 

“ Pass the salt.’’ “ Salad, Daniel ? ’’ “ Where’s 

the bread ? ” “ Ask Maggie if she’ll have some more 

blancmange-’ ’ 

“ Blancmange ? Thought it was new-fangled ‘ war 
junket ! ’ ’’ 

“ It tastes the same, dear ; it wouldn’t set. Do have 
some more ? ’’ An anxious voice kept pressing them. 

Simonne felt afraid to look at any one, and no one 
spoke to her; no one knew quite what to say ; and 
every one was wondering, and their wondering filled 
the air, making her ears tingle. Was she “ going ’’ 
to-morrow ? That’s what Mrs. Jennifer’s face, peering 
through the twilight, asked. Such sudden, abrupt, 


TANTALUS 


246 

obviously “ asking ” movements ! Chin thrust out, 
blue eyes wide open. And that's what Margaret’s dark 
looks asked. Margaret’s face was set in an unconscious 
stare ; she looked at her blancmange like this, and at 
her table-napkin. 

“ I must go,” Simonne’s heart was saying. As if he 
had heard, Daniel leaned still further forward, and his 
eyes said “ No ! ” 

After twilight comes a hard grey light on sky and 
road, trees grow dark, one star shines out. Simonne 
ran to the beach. It was low tide, the sea hidden but 
audible. She walked on wet sand, treading on worm- 
casts, hearing the crisp smashing of small shells. She 
felt a little like a boat which has just lost its bearings 
and runs, sails spread, head down the weather. Some¬ 
thing big was bearing her along, and she was moving 
fast while consequences, the future, to-morrow even, 
were all hidden as the tamarisk was hidden. 

When she got back clouds had covered the risen 
moon, distant thunder muttered. She hurried in by 
the old avenue, and on the doorstep ran into Daniel, 
who had been strolling the other way. It was un¬ 
fortunate that Mrs. Buckle should meet them at this 
moment. 

“ It’s late ! ” was all she said, facing them on the 
step, holding them up. And when Daniel said so 
courteously : 

“ Hullo, Ma’mselle ! been out ? ” Maggie sneered 
at them. 

“We might just as well be wicked ! ” flashed through 
Simonne’s head, and once indoors she slipped her 
fingers into his. 


TANTALUS 247 

“ What’s she been saying to you ? ” he asked her 
softly. 

“ That I go to-morrow.” 

“ Well, you won’t! ” They had no time for more, 
but she was comforted, there was an understanding. 
And for the rest ... it was like living on tiptoe. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


Two days passed, and the governess was with them 
still. She no longer taught the children, she was a 
visitor. The children stole off to play, and were quiet 
and serious at table because “ uncle ” looked stern and 
their mother “ angry/’ After breakfast Daniel would 
lock himself ostentatiously in his study; the family 
scattered to their house jobs ; no one asked where the 
French girl went. Only when the bell rang she appeared 
again with a face, if anything, more strained than at the 
meal before. Daniel would openly invite her to come 
with the children “ for a walk.” No one asked if they 
really went. 

“ It can’t go on,” Maggie said to her niece. 

“ He’s mad ! ” said Margaret bitterly. 

“ Bad ! ” snapped her aunt. 

The hot weather tired every one. The whole earth 
seemed fainting under its own weight, fields swam in 
dizzy lines of gold. And then a shipwreck was reported, 
a vessel torpedoed, not far from Draper’s Inch. The 
children ran off after breakfast to “ see ” ! Daniel 
watched them, half-turned from the window, fidgeting 
his fingers round and round his fountain pen. Margaret 
had followed the children; only Maggie stood, as 
though waiting, at the door. So long as Tilly fiddled 
round the open cupboard he was safe from interference. 

Between the lilac bushes he watched three workmen ; 

248 


TANTALUS 


249 


one was telling an obscene anecdote : “ Ha ! ha ! ” 
roared the others. The vicar’s impulse was to go out 
and speak to them, but, seeing Maggie, he stood still. 
This vexed him so, that he marched past her to his 
study ; and, once there, lost all wish to face those 
profligates, feeling, rather, a desire to shut the windows. 

Maggie suspected him ! What should he do ? 

Frowning, he stared at the globe—a bald-looking, 
poor, pale world. He felt bankrupt then in the grip 
of that vile sensation—indecision. White butter¬ 
flies might hover whichever way they pleased ; that 
bird could fly from the trees to the Downs ! But what 
should he do now ? 

“ I must,” he thought, “ must settle something ...” 
Crossing the room, he opened the door and began to 
listen ; in the dining-room, the French girl was clear¬ 
ing away silently, surreptitiously, not wishing to be 
seen or thanked. Daniel felt he must speak to her, but 
when he had entered the dining-room he could only 
stand lifting up and laying down one silver porridge- 
spoon ! 

Incertitude took away your sense of mastery : it set 
your heart stampeding in a queer, unnatural way ; 
some pulse went hammering in your chest: incertitude 
changed form ! It was no longer what he ought to do, 
but what he could. 

At this moment Simonne saw on his face the look 
a young man wears before he’s married ; a shining, 
begging, hungry look. She came close without speak¬ 
ing, put her arms round his neck, and kissed him with 
all her might. 

Something made him grip the girl, kissing her as he 


250 


TANTALUS 


had never in his life kissed any one ; thrusting, bruis¬ 
ing, without knowing what he did ; each kiss a blow 
aimed at that canting Maggie ! She had him in the 
hollow of her hand ! He would kiss so hard that he 
would break . . . 

The girl’s face changed, her body stiffened ; and 
with a sudden, fierce conviction of being watched, 
Daniel turned sharply : in the half-open doorway, with a 
tray in her hands, stood his sister-in-law. So it had come! 

“ . . . If you’ll spare me five minutes of your valu¬ 
able time ! ” she was saying next minute, after a sar¬ 
castic apology. 

“ I can see you at once ! ” he retorted. 

“ Now, then ! ” she attacked him when they were 
alone. “It’s no use prevaricating, the whole thing’s 
shameful. Oh! it’s no good putting on the airs and 
graces of a bishop ! ” Maggie’s voice had been husky, 
it cleared suddenly; she had been staring at his clerical 
collar, now she looked in his eyes. “ That girl must 
go.” And, as he did not answer, “It’s no use your being 
angry, any fool can see you’ve lost your head. If it 
wasn’t for Tilly-” 

“ Look here, Maggie ! Mdlle. Dubois will go when 
she has found a place to go to.” 

“ She’ll go to-day.” 

“No, no, Maggie ! ” Incertitude in Daniel hardened 
into a virile, fiery feeling. “No, no,” he said. “No, 
no! ” 

“You mean you won’t ? ” 

“ It’s queer, you always did dislike me!” The 
sweetish, dangerous smoothness of her brother-in-law’s 
tone infuriated Maggie Buckle. 



TANTALUS 


251 


“ I always saw through you ! ” she answered. 

“ Be careful, Maggie ! ” 

“ It’s for you to be careful! Why, it’s a miracle that 
Tilly hasn’t seen the whole affair. If she guessed—it 
would break her heart. You don’t deserve an ounce of 
consideration, but for Tilly’s sake, I’d . . . It’s lucky 

she’s a fool ! Any other woman-Aren’t you 

ashamed ? A husband, a father, a priest! What would 
your son say if he knew that behind his mother’s 
back-” 

“ Maggie ! ” 

“ I won’t be quiet! Kissing—yes, kissing a common 
little baggage-” 

“ Leave the room ! ” Daniel was breathing hard. 

“ Go ! Go out-! ” he stammered, throwing open 

the door and impelling his sister-in-law, by sheer 
quivering weight of will, to walk out in front of him. 

“ Think it over,” she was saying. “ You’re not fit to 
speak to, not fit to hold a service, till the girl has gone ! 
You’re—you’re ” 

From the scullery came the sound of Mrs. Jennifer 
singing : “ Nearer, my God, to Thee.” Daniel pushed 
past his visitor, snatched up a hat without knowing or 
caring what he was doing ; he could still hear that sad, 
flat voice carrying up at the end of the third line . . . 
Next moment he had run down the steps to the gate. 

He had advanced for an hour like a heavy engine 
that neither knows nor cares where it is going : the 
fire burns, the wheels go round, the iron boiler throbs, 
and mile after mile of dull grey road is devoured 


unseen. 






252 


TANTALUS 


Heat-clouds covered the sky, the cinders of a yellow 
storm-light hung level with his shoulders ; he was 
pushed by a desire to stamp upon it, too. The word 
“ profligate ” clung, half-choked, in his thoughts ; was 
that what Maggie had been about to call him ? 
“ Maggie . . . ! ” he stuttered aloud. And what did 
Maggie matter beside this aching, burning pain ? He 
would do something ! Could he take the girl away ? 

Without conscious recognition he passed a black¬ 
smith’s forge ; but queer thoughts caught him. Hadn’t 
he been blacksmith to his family ? Soldering, ham¬ 
mering, giving a fancy blow ? It was odd now to feel 
himself picked up by blacksmith life, gripped instead 
of gripping, being turned on the lathe and drilled by 
the wheel, pushed in the flame, plunged in the tank— 
helpless. Blacksmith life found him soft ! Seemed to 
revel in twisting him ! Self-respect was the stuff 
which melted and, cooling, was left in a sore, jagged 
state ! There were but two elements which would not 
immediately break in the flame : desire and anger. 
Anger resisting became harsh and furious, and desire 
itself was the fire. Thoughts of her, thoughts of her ! 

Creed was like rust, it had no body ; and faith bent 
like a reel of wire. Family feeling—Christianity ? 
Was it Christianity shrieked in him so ? Pride was 
melted in desire, the past was ashes in the fire, the 
future—a moment’s fierce, bright flare. Let life, the 
blacksmith, finish him ! 

When Daniel lifted his head again one empty ques¬ 
tion faced him : was this most human feeling he had 
ever known, this longing for her—sin ? Words lost 


TANTALUS 


253 


all meaning ! Sin ? it was necessity ! Was he to 
starve ? He must tramp through this shell of pain, 
let thought come later; only there, just before him, 
through half-closed eyes, let her face glimmer ! her 
lips touch his . . . she loved him ! 

Good God ! why had he ever let himself-? 

Attraction, shy, provocative attraction, and a young 
thing whose bright eyes asked—as the first spring 
evening asks—for kisses. A sense of life had attacked 
him ; he had lost his head. 

A fatal mistake is one of the bitterest companions. 
You may walk and walk, but you cannot outstep that 
shadow ; you may stamp the grass and still it is there, 
heavy, sinister, untiring. Now that passion had been 
let loose Daniel felt as if the sky had parted, and stark, 
bleak depths lay bare—a state called “sin.” He must 
take his place in it, but first he must outstamp this 
most bitter sense of folly. It was as a man, not as a 
priest, that he tramped along the lanes ; it was spleen 
in his blood made his mouth so bitter. He did not 
pray; there’s a disgust that makes prayer seem 
farcical. 

The hills darkened, a bird which had hardly settled 
from his passing uttered a shrill cry. Big brown bees 
buzzed, as though lost, a foot above the grass ; a heron 
began calling. The last rays of storm-light had burnt 
out, clouds dark and charged with electricity leaned 
from the sky. The vicar halted suddenly with the first 
question of returned self-consciousness: " Where 

ami?” 

He had walked to the foot of the Downs. For a 
moment it was enough to watch the elm trees blacken. 


254 


TANTALUS 


to hear the lumbering beetles ; there is pain so sharp 
it must be born unfocussed. Daniel stood quite still, 
hunching his shoulders, all at once clenching his hands. 

“ What would your son say ? ” “ Where are your 

principles ? Where’s your conscience ? ” “ Aren’t 

you ashamed ? ” That woman had conjured up 
terrible things. His wife, his son, his position—the 
girl’s ! Was this present pain love, or conscience ? 

“ Love ? ” he thought suddenly. An odd sort of 
amazement began stirring through his blood. “ I’ve 
been mad ! ” he thought, and felt sick (not with regret), 
but with fresh shame. “ I’ve been mad ! Blind ! 
O God ! ” this new pain brought him to the brink : 
“ O God !—must I send her away ? ” 

The scent of may-blossom worked through his blood ; 
moments a week ago closed round him : minutes spent 
with her; a look she had given him ; the tone of her 
voice on a word—all embalmed in that strong, dis¬ 
quieting scent, while somewhere a cuckoo called. 

The cuckoo was still calling. 

High over the land, in a little hollow full of haw¬ 
thorn, elderberry and dwarf oak, Daniel lay down. 
He had decided. He knew it now, and he felt tired. 
Tired and old, incapable of feeling anything more. 
So might some storm-tossed swimmer lie, having waded 
ashore with his boots on. 

She must go. She must go—because she loved him ! 
And thinking of Simonne it was as though knowing her 
to be unhappy he must deliberately strike her ! 

“ I’ve been as a man asleep,” he forced himself to 
say ; “ now I’m awake at last.” That was the way ; 
“ the fire of temptation ! ”—that was the phrase. 


TANTALUS 


255 


Temptation ! There was no temptation ; you did 
your duty, that was all; you chopped the pink may 
off the bush and buried it! Was that thunder ? When 
the moment came for duty, how senselessly heavy the 
heart felt. He looked at his watch, stood up, passed 

his foot over the broken bluebells. “ To-morrow-” 

To-morrow seemed like pain stretched out : he dis¬ 
covered that he had made another decision then— 
" To-day ! ” 

“ Yes, I must send her away,” he repeated lifelessly. 

The sooner, the better ; the sooner—yes, I must send 
her away.” 

He walked almost without thought, seeing nothing, 
hearing nothing; no longer troubled by the may- 
blossom ; feeling empty, old, disgusted. 

This was punishment enough—to have to tell the girl 
to pack. No future punishments could hold a candle 
to the pain of hurting people now ! And Daniel cursed 
himself. He walked right past the junction, forgetting 
that he had meant to catch a train, but from the first 
village he came to he sent two wires, one to the gover¬ 
ness. “ No good,” he wrote ; “ get ready for return 
Town. Jennifer.” And the other was a reply-paid 
message to the “ T.A.A.” off Leicester Square, asking 
if they had a room to spare for a young foreign teacher. 
Then he tramped his six miles back to Snayle, only 
stopping to order a trap from the inn, and having 
climbed into it, was driven the last half-mile with a set, 
grim expression as though he had lockjaw. Only 
sometimes he felt a mechanical necessity to repeat the 
phrase “ O God ! ” and then, as when a tooth stabs 
suddenly, he shut his eyes. 


TANTALUS 


256 

Simonne was looking for him at the gate. 

“ How quickly can you pack ? ” he asked at once. 

“ But—M’sieu ! ” 

“ There, there-” he jumped down. “ My dear, 

you must go ”—and in saying these words Daniel felt 
as if he had scraped his heart from top to bottom with 
a long, hot iron. 

“ Mrs. Buckle ? ” gasped the girl. 

“ And other things. Wait here,” he ordered the fat 
boy who drove ; then, standing with Simonne, attacked 
by all he thought he had mastered, he could only say 
at first: 

“You understand ? ” And, as she said nothing: “ It’s 
the only thing to do. At once ; it’s best. IVe wired 
. . . wired ...” For a moment he lost control of his 
voice, his lips simply moved and no sound came out. 
The girl stood staring. “ Its true,” he made himself 
say. “ IVe been horribly wrong. You—my wife—my¬ 
self ! And God knows why ! ” And still she stared. 

“ Understand me! ” cried Daniel; and then abruptly: 
“ This will all pass behind you, my child ; you’re young. 
It’s the only thing to do ! ” 

“ At once ? ” she asked. And with a feeling that 
words no longer mattered, he answered : 

“ Yes.” 

She walked away. It was hard to watch her go, to 
know that she was lingering for him to call her back ! 
Five minutes later he saw her carrying a yellow bag 
and a portmanteau. When he had taken them, she 
whispered: 

“ M’sieu.” 

“ My dear ? ” 



TANTALUS 


257 


The trees at this moment were shaken by one of those 
sudden blasts which race before a storm. Daniel 
clapped his hands to his head ; Simonne stood holding 
her body while her skirt was lifted to her chin, and hat 
and hair blew streaming. 

“I'm driving with you ! ” Daniel shouted. The 
aspens sounded like torn paper. Hearing them on every 
side, he tried to think and not to feel, shouting: 
“ Wait ! ” once more, he hurried indoors. At this 
moment he simply did the next thing to be done, 
disposing of himself as though he were another man. 
Entering his study, mechanically opening a writing- 
case, taking out a yellow cheque-book, writing a cheque, 
tearing it off, putting it in an envelope, and running out 
again. 

At the gate he saw three children. Part of life yester¬ 
day, they meant nothing now ; he did not smile at 
them, and the moment they were out of sight forgot 
them. Simonne was already in the cart with her 
luggage, not crying, only looking like an old 
woman. 

They drove in silence. 

“You must write to me, let me know-” Daniel 

tried to say. 

“ I shall no longer teach.” 

“ Now, be careful! ” 

“ I shall go where no one matters; to the war, 
perhaps.” 

“ My dear, now, don’t-” 

When the ticket-clerk slid back his wooden shut¬ 
ter, both turned to stare at his pale face appearing, 
as though expecting it to bring relief. But it was 



258 TANTALUS 

quite impassive; it simply waited for the next 
event. 

“ One third single Victoria.” Then, struck by some¬ 
thing “ not quite normal ” about the set look of her 
sharpened face, Daniel took a ticket for himself to the 
junction. 

“ When you get up to Town,” he told her, “ it'll be 
all right.” And presently : “ When you're older, my 
dear, you’ll understand ! ” 

“ When we are dead,” she answered quickly, “ we 
shall understand life ! Is it not so ? ” 

Daniel walked away and bought a newspaper. 

When he tried to shout across the train noise that he 
might see her “ presently,” that she must let them have 
her “ news ” ; when he leaned forward smiling—she 
would not look. “ He doesn't want me ! ” was her only 
thought, the bitterest, coldest thought a woman knows. 

At the junction they had to wait again, tormenting, 
silent minutes on a draughty platform. Only when the 
London train came in Daniel longed to say : “I love 
you ! ” What he said was : “ Got your umbrella ? ” 
and took refuge in the hustle-bustle of all difficult 
departures. 

“ Take care . . ."he stammered. 

Only when the guard waved he leaned forward sud¬ 
denly and broke that fixed, stunned staring in her eyes ; 
he saw her lips move too, and stretching up, took both 
her hands, quite without passion, humbly, tenderly ; 
his own throat husky. 

“ I had to do it ! ” he was telling her ; and, thrusting 
his arm in over the doorway, pressed a folded envelope 
into|her cold hand. “ Forgive me—God bless you l ” 


TANTALUS 


259 


The whistle drowned whatever word she spoke. The 
train moved. Daniel ran beside it, smiling, still trying 
to bear her up. The engine gathered speed, a distant 
flash lit all the windows, heavy drops began to fall, 
marking the grey platform. With a short, dull “ click ” 
the signal was released ; and with that sound Daniel 
thought the affair had ended. He realised all at once 
that he was deadly tired, stiff, and empty, without 
appetite. Inquiring for a train, he found he had two 
hours to wait. 

Simonne sat in her third-class carriage, mile after 
mile, afraid to move, unable to open the envelope in her 
hand. Pain, which had begun when she saw him march 
out of the house, which had stood up and bitten her 
like some long-necked animal when she read his tele¬ 
gram, which had sunk down on her—a weight—while 
packing, pain made her stiff with a sore, swollen feeling. 
If she moved she felt that she might burst. The only 
thing was to sit with her elbows to her waist, rigid. She 
must not, dare not, cry. If that relief once took her she 
felt that she might scream. 

Her whole face longed for the hard comfort of a mat¬ 
tress, something that she might dash her head against, 
stifling the hungry, angry life-force straining up her 
throat. 

" I want him ! I want his love ! He doesn’t love 
me—oh ! ” 

She shut her eyes, becoming conscious of a dizzy 
buzzing in her ears. Sheet lightning lit the Downs, rain 
poured on the windows ; the far rumble of thunder 
mixed with the noise of the train. In the first dark 


26 o 


TANTALUS 


tunnel she thought : “ Fini ! ” and the only answer 
was pain taking a fresh grip. When the train drew up 
somewhere and travellers got in, she let them press on 
her; only two things in the world were possible : 
rigidity and silence. 

A sense of physical sickness came over her at Clapham 
Junction. She had not reckoned with old memories of 
London ! and now they came with the smell of smoke 
and the sight of huddled houses ; the huge, squeezed-in 
heart of the country ! 

The rain was over, the sun had set, clouds had 
broken ; one mass stood up in triple layers, primrose, 
apricot and violet. When the train ran into Victoria 
she was ready, only squeezing her umbrella suddenly 
very close, having at that moment caught sight of her 
journey’s end. 

Simonne looked back at the train, blue-coated railway 
girls were already sweeping out her empty carriage. 

A cup of tea with saccharine instead of sugar, a ham 
sandwich so dry that it suggested cardboard, a fireplace 
without a fire, and at the buffet a stout, pale woman, 
who looked sick to death of everything. The tea tasted 
faintly of boot-leather, and having drunk three cups, 
Daniel sat stirring his fourth with a tarnished metal 
spoon. The countryside was dark now under the wings 
of the storm ; what light there was in this sour-smelling 
little inner room, seemed concentrated in the looking- 
glass. No one else came in ; the woman across the 
counter sat behind a novelette ; if Daniel turned his 
head he saw glass jars of gingerbread and rusks and 
yellow cakes. 


TANTALUS 


261 


“ If I could have a pipe-” he thought, but smoking 

he had given up when war began. 

When he looked round again the room was lighter, 
the storm had passed. He had still an hour to wait. 
Overcome suddenly by the stuffy smell of ham and 
buns, Daniel resolved to walk. If he was late he could 
go straight to bed. To-morrow would do for explana¬ 
tions ; “ She had a wire, she had to go. I took her to 
the junction/’ 

Maggie would smile. Never mind, she could do 
nothing now ! And for the first time comfort touched 
him, like a kitten’s paw ! He paid his bill, tramped 
into the twilight along roads smelling of wet flowers. 
The afterglow was fading, the slim horns of a golden 
moon appeared, bats wheeled under the telegraph wires. 
Odds and ends of Scripture floated up like broken wood 
above a wreck : “ Unto him that overcometh ...” 
After all he had solved a riddle, won a battle, but he 
was very tired. It was years since he had walked so 
far ; never in his life had he passed through such a 
crisis ; and now he felt two instincts warring in him : 
one—a longing to lie down and just remember ! the 
other—a self-preserving need to just forget ! 

When he stood to rest upon a gate he did not hear 
the water draining in the fields with a soft hiss, or the 
hopping of that night-beast in the grass; he did not see 
the moths, or the black bats. “ We are all sinners,” he 
was making himself say, “ frail, weak—dust ” 

God was a great white Light, and when you were 
overtired and on the verge of illness, you saw it like a 
crack across your brain. 

The vicar hurried. At sight of the house a queer 




262 


TANTALUS 


excitement rose in him. Faint light came from his 
window, all the lower rooms were dark. He went in 
quickly. Meeting nobody he ran upstairs. His wife 
was there, in bed, grotesque by candle-light ! just as 
he’d pictured her ; eyes staring, mouth a little open ; 
but her cheeks were wet. Had she been anxious ? 
With this thought the last crumbs of wrath and pride, 
it seemed, gave way in him. 

“ Tilly! ”—plastered with mud, but uplifted, his pale 
face shining, the vicar fell on his knees ; gently, humbly 
he felt for her hand ; everything he had passed through 
seemed blotted out in this, the summit of self-abnega¬ 
tion. “ Tilly,” he began to tell her, “ I’ve been 
tempted, tempted like any wretched man! I’ve 
suffered, gone through hell, been mad ! blind ! wicked! 
Been obsessed ! Oh, I’ve been wounded !—but God— 
God gave me strength-” 

“ I know ; you love the governess.” 

“ What ? ” 

“ Oh ! I’ve known for weeks-” 

“ Matilda ! ” 

“ But I’ve prayed . . . Where is she ? ” 

Daniel felt as if he had stepped into a bog. Things 
he had meant to say still clung but unadapted ; when 
he stammered : “ God allows us to be tested, tried and 
tested. Don’t you see ? My trial! my victory ! ” it 
had a senseless sound even to himself. 

“You went with her ? ” asked his wife. 

“ I sent her back to Town ...” This, too, seemed 
quite inadequate. (Tilly was shrinking from the touch 
of his hands !) 

“ But, Tilly, I’ve done nothing! I swear it! ” 




TANTALUS 


263 


u Before God ? ” 

“ Yes ! yes !—before God ! ” 

Sweat soaked his face and collar. His wife sat con¬ 
demning ! her face old and haggard below her smooth 
hair, parted, plaited like a girl’s ; and a sense of guilt 
quite different to anything he had felt outdoors, sank 
into Daniel, stamping his soul as the seal stamps wax : 
not sin—but his wife’s opinion of him as a sinner. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


While Daniel had been sitting with his hat pulled 
over his eyes at the railway station, Hilda, Dunstan 
and Claude had seated themselves on the front door¬ 
step because they felt there was something wrong. It 
was getting late, they could tell by the sun, and no one 
called them in to supper. Their hands were dirty, jam 
from tea had dried upon Claude’s face. Margaret and 
their mother and aunt had stayed to watch the ship 
go down. 

“ Run an’ listen ! ” Hilda kept urging her brothers, 
but they were frightened. “ Shall I call out ? ” she 
asked. “ Have they come back ? ” And as the 
children couldn’t answer their own questions, they 
listened harder, turning their heads, when the whole 
house behind them seemed listening too. 

“ Is there goin’ to be anover funder-storm ? ” asked 
Claude. 

“I’m not afraid of thunder ! ” declared Dunstan. 

“ They’ve forgotten us,” sighed Hilda. In the silence 
which followed they were vaguely tried by the strong, 
sweet, evening scent of flowers. The church clock 
chimed again ; the sound seemed almost in their ears. 

“ I hate that clock,” muttered Hilda ; but the little 
boys were listening, a starling on the lawn gave a 
startled cry, and next moment they saw Aunt Tilly 
coming. 


264 


TANTALUS 


265 


“ Where’s Uncle Dan ? ” she asked at once. 

“ He took Ma’mselle for a drive-” said Dunstan. 

“ What ? ” 

Moved by a feeling she didn’t understand, Hilda 
exclaimed : “I expect they won’t be long ! ” 

Dunstan, more matter-of-fact and younger, looked 
up through his round spectacles to add : “ They took 
some luggage.” 

Their aunt’s fingers flew to her bright brown beads, 
one finger seemed trying to squeeze in between, but 
they were big beads, close threaded. “ Luggage ? ” 
she was stammering. That sense of the unusual trod 
heavily on Hilda ; she sighed, and at this moment the 
finger did it ! The waxed thread snapped, the beads 
came rolling down, and without waiting to pick up 
one, Aunt Tilly ran upstairs. “ Daniel! ” she was 
calling, “ Daniel! Daniel! ” 

It was at this moment that Fan barked ; their mother 
and Margaret were coming round the house, from the 
side avenue. 

“ Why isn’t Claude in bed ? ” their mother asked. 
Words rushed up without thought: 

“ Uncle Dan an’ Ma’mselle are gone-” 

“ Gone ? ” 

The sudden desire to talk left Hilda; she was 
startled, almost terrified by her grown-up cousin’s 
face and the queer, giddy way Margaret had reeled 
against the porch. 

“Tell me everything,” their mother was com¬ 
manding ; but the children waited for each other. 
“ Did you see your uncle ? Did he say anything ? 
After tea ? Did he ask-? ” 





266 TANTALUS 

“Oh, he just drove up/’ said Hilda, hunching her 
shoulders. 

“ Yes,—and then ? ” 

“ Then they got in with the things an’ drove off. 
What’s the matter ? What’s happened ? ” 

“ So he’s done it,” said their mother. Hilda jumped 
and seized her cousin round the waist. 

“ Tell me,” she insisted ; “ what’s he done ? ” But 
Cousin Meg made her body stiff as wood, she had 
jerked her face back. 

“ Leave your cousin alone,” ordered her mother. 
Hilda stepped back, twisting her dirty little hands ; 
something in her, faithful, and very desolate, was 
calling : “ Uncle Dan ! ” 

“ Won’t he come back ? ” she whispered. 

“ Has your aunt come in ? ” 

“ Oh yes, we told her-” 

“ Good heavens ! ” Their mother’s face seem to grow 
quite dark, and Margaret’s white as the arabis, she had 
started forward : “ Mother ! ” the children heard her 

gasp. She ran past them, but not before Hilda had 
time to discover : “ She’s crying ! ” that set the seal 
on all that was strange and impossible, a “ grown-up ” 
crying, not caring who saw ! 

Claude began to cry, too ; and Hilda mutely, with 
all her might, caught hold of her mother’s legs. When 
those hard legs had broken away, and her mother had 
followed Margaret, there was a long silence, until 
presently Aunt Tilly herself came down. Her eyes 
were red-rimmed, they had a startled stare, as if 
expecting trees to change shape or flowers to run away. 
The sunset made a patch of orange on her brown. 



TANTALUS 267 

streaked hair, her cheeks looked crushed, yet swollen, 
small crimson patches showed on them. 

“ I think there’s time,” she said, “just time if 
Hilda bicycles. Take this to the post-office ”—holding 
out a paper. 

“ What is it, auntie ? ” 

“ A telegram.” 

When Hilda started on her bicycle she saw Aunt 
Tilly go to church. The post-office was open, though 
the clocks were striking, but the “ black-beetle woman ” 
(as they called her) was amiable for once, and sent the 
wire : perhaps Hilda’s face impressed her : and the 
wire said : “ Urgent.” 

“ Put yourself to bed,” her mother ordered, when the 
child got in ; but Hilda, in her nightgown, stood a long 
time at the window. It was that hour children love, 
between sunset and moon-rise, when toads hop along 
the path, and moths wake up : when the grass turns 
wet, and a tree creaks suddenly as if it had grown too 
full for its bark ; now and then the same sound came 
from a chair. Was Aunt Tilly still in church ? In all 
her life Hilda had never known such strange events. 

Her aunt, too, felt bewildered. Unconsciously she 
had prepared herself for “ something,” but now that 
it had come she felt, at first, too crushed to think. It 
was the moral shock which stunned her like a blow i 
the personal wound had become familiar, a secret 
which she had covered with painful heroism for her 
children’s sake ; now Margaret knew. And Maggie - 1 
this fact somehow increased the burden. She felt 
betrayed, and lost in a great prickly darkness which 
was her consciousness of Daniel’s “ sin.” 


268 


TANTALUS 


“ What should a good wife do ? ” 

Pray for him. Forgive him ? That she knew, would 
be her ultimate, painful duty ; but when he first came 
back—(for he would come, she felt certain)—trust 
him ? Look up to him ? Believe in him ? Never. 

“ O God ! ” she prayed, and thought at the same 
time : “ they’ve gone to Brighton.” 

There’s a blue eye that won’t strike bargains ; Mrs. 
Jennifer’s frank, straight gaze fixed on the Cross never 
wavered, though her lips quivered ; her eyes stood for 
her conscience, those rather chapped lips for her heart. 
She tried to ask herself—was she to blame ? She could 
not think so. Looking back she saw their days of 
courtship, an evening at her father’s gate, no words, 
but his eyes had swallowed her up ! Then his zeal as 
a curate ; their first years of marriage, full of faint 
surprises, a time of “ looking forward ” to something 
she had always been too busy to attain, but which 
“ was coming ”—that perfect happiness of all good 
people. She had done her duty, and he had done his 
duty, too, in those successful London days, and cer¬ 
tainly at Hartake. Only this spring he had changed. 
He had not discussed his sermons with her lately, had 
been impatient; a night came back when he had 
muttered : “ Bosh ! ” after some most serious Church 
discussion, it had shocked her. He had been slowly, 
surely slipping down an awful spiritual gradient, and 
she hadn’t stopped him ! She could see it now . . . 
they used to chat about Church matters, walking home 
from early service, and lately she had walked alone ; 
he hung back, she hurried. And what had worried her 
most had been his dislike of cold mutton ! 


TANTALUS 


269 

But another memory of an evening not so very long 
ago came back (two, three years ?). He was standing 
hatless on the gravel with a yellow sunset tinting his 
head pale gold, and his thirsty eyes were like those 
soft, dark pansy petals children love to stroke ; he had 
been wearing a buttonhole, and had said to her : 

“ Come out ! ” 

(As if a busy woman could come out . . . !) 

Ah, well ! perhaps he had said it this spring to that 
girl ? The awful part of sin was its effect on other 
people ; she could never forgive him that. This girl— 
and now her own pure inner thoughts defiled ; wherever 
her mind touched a fact she knew—it broke ; a remark 
about a face last summer had remained in memory as 
a chance remark, but was it ? “ If he could deceive 

me once-” she said ; then shut her eyes and tried 

to pray. God saw it all, that was some consolation. 
“ Forgive him, for Christ’s sake ! ” she begged her God. 
She saw him as a lost sheep in the wilderness, and knew 
that however much it shocked her, hurt her feelings, 
bruised her—she must fight for his soul. She began 
to feel uplifted, her hands shook, tightly clasped, and 
at this moment her heart took her unawares and said : 
“You love him ! ” “ Not the same, not the same ! ” 

cried conscience, and the uplifted feeling passed : “I 

don’t blame the girl-” she told herself (it eased her 

somehow). “ He has sinned against her, too.” And 
when memories of Simonne’s face attacked her, she 
repeated : “He has sinned . . . sinned against God ! ” 

But only when Daniel came home did she know the 
depth of her wound. The first sound of his foot on the 
stairs, and her poor heart jumped ! When he looked 




270 TANTALUS 

round the door it pulled at her side ! Aversion, horror, 
fear ! 

Daniel’s confession, the fact that he had not—in 
deed—done all she had dreaded, could not take away 
the feeling she had now of something broken, lost; of 
his “ fall from an ideal ”... of his having ceased to 
love her ! 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


If it had not been too irregular an action, Mrs. 
Jennifer would have left her husband's bed, and gone 
to sleep with Margaret; she told him so, told him that 
it was just her “ duty ” kept her there. 

“ But don't you see -? " He sat up in the dark. 

“ The girl is gone, Tilly ! she’s gone ! ” 

This made her cry again. 

When the vicar woke early from sharp, painful 
dreams, his wife was still sobbing in her sleep ; in the 
grey light he saw a tear still wandering down her 
swollen cheek. Outdoors the birds chirruped. Daniel 
would have escaped to the beach, but felt that he must 
be beside his wife in her awakening ; then surely she 
would see that he had conquered ? For he had ! he 
had ! His dreams of Simonne only proved more bitterly 
all that he had put away for ever. 

Mrs. Jennifer lay very still when she first woke, then 
suddenly began to cry again, but consciously. 

“ There's one thing, Tilly ; we must be careful, my 

dear—you see, Margaret-" Daniel cleared his 

throat. 

“ But Margaret knows ! ” exclaimed his wife ; “ it 
was Meg herself . . . who . . . who sent for Maggie. 
She saw you kiss . . . ! " 

Tilly was taking it hard, she was such a good woman ; 
clasping her red, knotted hands, she told him : 

271 




272 


TANTALUS 


“ I’ve sent for mother.” 

Daniel turned right round then, all his old authority 
staring from his eyes. 

“ You’ve what ? ” 

“ Yesterday ! ” 

He understood, for in the moment’s silence which fell 
immediately between them things left unsaid lips, 
were said by instinct: Daniel knew, from the way the 
blood drained from his arms, and rushed to his head, 
that his wife—there, had wired to her mother last night 
when she thought, thought that he—had “ gone off 
with the girl! ” This little fact made real his wife’s 
mistake towards him as even her tears had not yet done. 
Anger, disgust, humiliation, made Daniel squeeze his 
own hands tight, while he said sourly : 

“ You’ll please tell her the truth.” 

“ You can’t blame me, Daniel,” was his wife’s retort. 
“ What was I to do ? ” 

“ Will you please face the facts, Matilda, and not 
what you imagined ! ” 

“ But you-” she closed her lips, and once more 

the silence said it all for her : “You love the girl! ” 

Love ! love ! love ! wasn’t he still treading it down 
with every moment ? Hadn’t his dreams (those unfair 
traitors to our best intentions) made him wake with a 
damp forehead, and his arms, in fancy, still stretched 
out ? Sick and cold had those first moments of 
awakening been. Facts look so naked by the light of 
dawn ; and where was his religion ? At low ebb. 

He knew by the queer commotion in his spirit that 
he had just passed another crisis ; yet to keep his 
balance he went to breakfast without examining his 



TANTALUS 


273 


state ; his face merely a little paler, his hands colder, 
his eyes angrier than usual; conscious thought amount¬ 
ing to : “ Maggie—confound her ! ” and then : “ Isn’t 
Meg going to kiss me ? ” 

The formal prayers he had to read came drily from 
his throat; dry, too, was his feeling towards them— 
lifeless, meaningless inanities ! He knew life now ! 
When a man has sent away his heart’s desire—he knows. 

Bitter that day was the taste of the coffee . . . there 
sat Margaret looking as though a wall of ice had formed 
between her and the world, and there sat Tilly half 
tremulous still, unable to eat, unable to talk ; she had 
“ forgiven ” him, but she was still condemning him ! 
And there sat Maggie, a little tired perhaps ? (And 
well she might be ! her clear, hard eyes saying plainly : 
“ I told you so ! ”) 

And there sat the children, with little closed-up faces, 
eyes staring, intent, serious ! they were afraid to talk 
to him. When he asked coldly: “ Has the post 

come ? ” simply because he felt he must make his voice 
heard, he saw all faces look suspicious, and it was borne 
in on him that from now on whatever he did or said, 
or left unsaid—would rouse suspicion. If he had 
flirted (Daniel understood), his wife would have been 
shocked but less ashamed : it was because he had loved 
the girl . . . 

The heavy silence in the dining-room was broken by 
the buzzing of a dark bumble-bee knocking head and 
wings against the shut side of the window ; the sound 
became shrill, exasperating ; Mrs. Buckle exclaimed : 

“ Put that bee out, somebody ! ” 

Margaret got up. Staring at her standing there with 


274 


TANTALUS 


her back to them all (glad, no doubt to turn away !), 
Daniel discovered afresh the gulf between to-day and 
yesterday. The sudden depth of this gulf made usual 
sights seem sinister. He felt a touch of heart-sinking 
with the thought: “ What next ? ” All the hours of 
his life spent pen in hand at a writing-table fell away in 
fancy, like old plaster from a wound. 

His position had altered. And against this fact rose 
a feeling that he “ didn’t mean to stand it ! ” but what 
was he to say, or do ? When his angry eyes roved 
round he was silenced by an inner bitterness, the 
bitterness of his own humiliation. 

“ May we get down ? ” the children asked. 

Margaret released the bee, but still she stood with 
face averted ; Tilly and Maggie whispered together, 
they glanced at him, they were settling something 
without his leave ! Daniel left the room. 

From the hall he heard the two words : “ Mother,” 
“ Telegram.” Then Tilly came hurrying to find her 
purse. 

“ Yes ! ” the vicar said to her in a freezing, deadly 
voice : “Yes, certainly ! send another telegram ! ” 

At half-past twelve that day he was still alone, when 
he heard a crunch of wheels. 

His mother-in-law ! 

Daniel watched the dusty station cab draw up ; the 
telegram had been too late ? A serious moment ! but 
it seemed to him petty, ridiculous. Going to his door 
he saw Margaret run upstairs with a face both sick and 
frightened : “ Women ! ” he thought: (it was disgust¬ 
ing, the way they caught hold of horror). Upstairs he 
heard a door slam on a sound of children’s voices. 


TANTALUS 


275 

“ Tilly ! ” he called, and was forced to go himself to 
the front door, smiling. An awkward, indelicate . . . 
His mother-in-law took her time getting out, a fine, 
handsome woman dressed in grey, with a wide grey 
hat on iron-grey hair, above a wind-burnt face. 

"You didn’t get our second wire ? ” he asked. 

“ One came last night. Dear Tilly so seldom-we 

were anxious. What’s the matter ? ” 

" Nothing, nothing,” declared Daniel; “ a mistake, 
a misapprehension-” 

“ Mother !! ” Tilly, all dishevelled, came running 
to the door; her face looked dreadfully bruised in the 
sunlight. 

“ A mistake,” repeated Daniel, but her appearance 
made his words untrue. His hard eyes asked her : 
“ Shall I stay ? ” while hers were entangled in pitiful 
efforts to escape the concern in the eyes of her mother. 
Daniel cleared his throat. 

“ Say nothing ! ” he tried to whisper ; but she would 
be questioned, she must answer ! 

This dilemma now accused him in her frightened 
stare ! 

His mother-in-law was used to country people, she 
did not hurry them, her voice (so full of self-control that 
incidentally it suggested control of all the world) just 
murmured pleasantly light nothings before the cab- 
driver. Watching her walk up the steps, Daniel had 
to ask himself : Would she understand ? "A practical 
woman,” he had always said of her ; a “ fine ” woman ; 
a “ fine church woman.” (Had she not run her 
husband’s church for years ?) But would she under¬ 
stand ? 


TANTALUS 


276 

Tilly had begun to chatter in a strained, unnatural 
way about the “ dear, dear children . . .” 

“ Did you say Maggie is here ? ” her mother 
interrupted. (Yes, it would all come out.) 

“ You’d better take your mother upstairs. I shall 
be in the study,” said Daniel icily; he was trying not 
to think, above all not to feel; but all the time a bitter, 
sordid weight was growing on him, a taste as though 
he had eaten dust; as though his mouth was full of 
ashes. He stood drumming his nails on the window. 

Ten, twenty minutes passed; the wind out there 
freshened ; there were footsteps hurrying to the door ; 
Daniel turned sharply. Ah ! His wife in tears again ! 
And at her heels his mother-in-law, but flushed as a 
field of poppies on Bank Holiday ! Her big, brown 
eyes had darkened, their prominence was filled with 
something so like horror that anger seemed at once to 
flare, and freeze, in Daniel. 

“ Yes ? ” he asked curtly. 

“ Tilly tells me there’s been trouble with the 
governess ... a foreigner ! . . . She says you sent 
the girl away. Then why, why did Tilly wire ? She 
says ...” (Mrs. Campion stared more painfully.) 
“ She says—she sent the wire before . . . before you 
came back last night ? But she hasn’t told me . . .” 
Mrs. Campion’s lips closed suddenly; she seemed 
herself afraid because she could not ask the usual 
question : “ Who’s the man ? ” 

Daniel felt at this moment as though his family had 
caught him in a net, drawn every hour a little closer, a 
little tighter on his head, forcing him- 

“ The girl left Snayle innocent! ” he exclaimed ; but 



TANTALUS 


2 77 

his cheeks tingled, the woman there in front of him had 
guessed . . . 

“Daniel!!” only one word, but the tone of it! 
Mrs. Campion, like Tilly, was taking it hard ; but it 
was the flush of shame turning her red cheeks purple 
which punished the vicar. 

“ The girl was young ! ” whispered Mrs. Jennifer. 

Mrs. Campion asked huskily: “Of course, no¬ 
body-? ” 

“ Oh yes, the girls-” 

“ Only Margaret/’ rapped out Daniel, and saw his 
wife’s wet, puckered face look still more sorrowfully at 
him. 

“ Thelma,” she whispered ; (that stabbed him hard), 
“ . . . and so I sent her away ... a visit; she’s so 
young, she may forget ? ” 

“ How disgraceful! ” broke from Mrs. Campion, 
“ how utterly and inconceivably disgraceful! . . . 
Daniel! And with a saint like Tilly for your wife ! . . . 
A clergyman-” 

“ A human being ! ” 

“ A priest of God ! ” 

Those simple words: “a priest-” exploded 

Daniel’s self-control; it was he who flushed and 
quivered, and stood glaring at the world ; and so many 
explanations thundered in his head, that he could only 
stammer : 

“ No ! No ! ... No ! No ! ” 

“ Tilly has had enough of this,” he heard a voice say 
frigidly. The women left him ; but he strode after 
them, then changed his mind, snatched up his hat, and 
marched to the sea. Only walking would clear his 




TANTALUS 


278 

head and quiet his pulse ; only space would help him. 
But space was vivid with warm life that morning, the 
hardy, callous life of plants on stones, the little pink 
convolvulus, clumps of strong, rank camomile, the 
feathery tamarisk blossom. The whole pageant of fine 
weather, with its rapture, its careless dazzle on the 
earth ! Little black-and-red butterflies tossed about, 
and white ones, and sulphur-yellow, seeming never to 
rest, always fluttering on and on from one pink flower 
to another; “ red soldiers ” crawling up the stalks of 
spear-grass ; swallows flying under the hedge. It was 
too vivid, heartless—as though bright, brittle glass 
should be offered one who asked for love. 

Pain jabbed at Daniel; thoughts of his wife, his 
mother-in-law, his daughters even, were flooded out by 
hunger for one being, one being only ! one necessity, one 
verity in life, one girl! He could fancy himself with 
her, while the fancy hurt cruelly, painfully ; he could 
see her, could feel her young intensity. His whole 
being stretched out towards her like a hand, but this 
hand grasped nothing ! 

Emptiness gave passion power ; Daniel lost himself. 
He was a world-wide ache spilled out upon the stones, 
unnamed, unfocussed now ; no longer struggling, just 
existing. 

Would she be suffering ? 

With this thought he painfully recovered sense again. 
One of those hours when the height of the sky and the 
width of the sea crush life in a man ; he feels too small, 
too feeble, for the carelessness of space ; all his heart 
is bent on one thing—and that one thing is not there, 
he is alone, and solitude consumes him. 


TANTALUS 


279 

When Daniel returned, four hours later, he stepped 
into the awkward atmosphere of Maggie's departure. 
His head ached ; at that moment he felt drained of 
life ; he had once again suppressed longing—oh, yes ! 
it was Maggie (not himself) who was going to 
London. 

The cab had come, the women were putting in the 
packages, the children looked half-frightened. Only 
Hilda ran to him, and, feeling her arms round his neck, 
he kissed her all at once with lips which trembled. 

“ . . . Is it true, uncle ? ” (He was startled when 
he heard that little whisper.) “ Did Ma’mselle do 
something-? ” 

“ No, my pet,” he whispered back, “ your Made¬ 
moiselle was absolutely good.” 

“ Then it was you ? ” 

“ Yes, darling, it was I.” 

“ Hilda ! ” (Couldn't they leave the child with him a 
minute ?) 

“ I don't care,” came Hilda’s hot breath in his face ; 
and her hug, hard and clinging, said for her : “I don’t 
care ! I love you ! ” 

When the cab with the children had rolled away, life 
became suddenly quite silent. 

Daniel spent that evening with his family, having 
nothing to say, too tired and depressed for the effort of 
speech, until it was borne in on him that they mistook 
this silence on his part for shame. But it was not 
shame, it was exhaustion, relieved by a faint smile of 
irony. They seemed to him so ignorant—these women. 
When he sighed he saw his mother-in-law’s swift glance 
at Margaret. He seemed a weight upon their conver- 


280 TANTALUS 

sation ; while their impersonal remarks weighed heavily 
on him. 

One bird kept chirruping : two nights ago he had 
heard the same sound, but with the girl close by him. 
Impossible to help these full, deep sighs . . . What was 
Tilly speaking of so earnestly ? Maggie’s goodness ; 
Maggie’s work; but she didn’t mention Maggie’s 
husband. In future, when her people spoke of Tilly, 
would they observe the same reticence towards him¬ 
self ? Maggie’s husband was below her ; a poor, weak 
specimen; they all despised him. And did these 
women, sitting knitting in the twilight, despise him, 
too ? Did they know what longing was ? Did they 
consider for one minute that he had conquered ? No, 
they spoke constrainedly of home affairs. 

“ You must come to us,” his mother-in-law was tell¬ 
ing Tilly ; and in Tilly’s earnest manner of consenting 
he read her thought : to take her husband to that church 
would rouse his conscience ! “ What she really means,” 
he told himself, “ is—punish me. Ha ! ” He had an 
impulse to leave the drawing-room, but another instinct 
held him : he would not be driven out. He had shame 
enough, his own shame, in this quiet, empty hour, for 
the longing which had racked him on the beach ; more 
shame for this relapse than for a happy hour when he 
had kissed her. 

The next day passed quietly until teatime. The old 
house seemed only half alive ; Tilly and her mother 
strolled about together ; and bitterness increased in 
Daniel. He was realising that love was what he wanted 
from his family ; good, humble, trusting love. Love 
was the only salve in life. Let them love him, and for- 


TANTALUS 


281 


give him after ! Then at teatime an unpleasant episode 
occurred. The front door was opened from without. 
Hearing it, Mrs. Jennifer glanced in sudden fear at 
Daniel; he felt his own neck flame; a moment’s agony! 
But it was not the governess, it was Betsie who appeared. 
Her hat tilted rakishly her pale face shining, her dusty, 
black alpaca coat bulging with belongings. 

“ How’s your mother ? ” Daniel asked her. 

“ Doin’ nicely, thanks. She wanted me to put me 
will on ’er ! But, dearie me, when I was shoppin’ 
yesterday at Travisham, when I was waitin’ at the 
junction for me train, I seed the blessed children on the 
platform, an’ a stranger wi’ ’em.” Betsie looked 
slowly round the dining-room. “ Now, where’s our 
modermoiselle ? ” 

“ Mademoiselle Dubois has left,” said Mrs. Jennifer, 
but as we speak of the dead. 

Daniel saw Betsie’s little eyes first on his wife, then on 
himself, and then on Margaret. He saw Margaret 
redden. He saw his daughter bite her lips as though 
to force back the hot colour which had swamped her 
sallow cheeks. Next moment she had bent her head, 
ashamed of him. 

Tilly, as soon as Betsie had walked off, sat staring 
at her plate. His mother-in-law said frigidly : “Now 
perhaps you realise-” 

“ I realise so much—that I’m going . . . Young 

Reed can take the duties-” His wife’s face froze 

the vicar’s anger for a moment; what was the matter 
with her ? Was she ill ? Then his daughter’s eyes, 
fixed like a vice on his own, made him shout “ My 
God I ” His face flamed, his forehead grew wet, the 




282 


TANTALUS 


muscles in his throat swelled suddenly, preventing 
speech . . . They suspected him ! Even now, these 
women, suspected him—of slipping off to join the 
governess ! “ How dare you ? ” he asked them all, 

when he could speak. “ Because, as a man, I was 
tempted ? You, you don’t know what temptation is. 
You—you sanctimonious—Pharisees ! Get out of 
here ! till I relieve you of my presence-! Go! ” 

The three women had released the chairs and table 
they had been clutching. With trembling limbs, faces 
flushed, their quiet “ good manners ” crumbled and 
dishevelled—they ran before him through the door. 

Next morning Daniel left for a cottage on the Downs. 



CHAPTER XXXVII 


“ Courage/' was what he said to himself in solitude. 
Where was she , he wondered, the girl he had hurt 
most of all ? Back in France ? She was far enough 
now, and he was ridden by a sense of heaviness. 

“ It's over," he had said to Tilly on his last night at 
Snayle ; “ it’s over, you know that! You know that 
a man at my age is just tempted once, and then. . . . 
You know I sent her away ! For God’s sake, won’t 
you understand-? ” 

“ I feel I ought to know what’s become of her,’’ had 
been his wife’s reply. 

“ She’s innocent! ’’ he had exclaimed; and then Tilly 
had begun again : 

“No honest girl-’’ and he had marched into his 

dressing-room. The past comes back on one in soli¬ 
tude. While he was climbing the Downs his old parish 
seemed sometimes more real than these miles of bare 
grass ; his dark house . . . some detail. Memories of 
walks, memories of moments on the beach ! So do the 
dead days attack us. 

Most bitter was the memory of his return to Tilly. 
He had to acknowledge that what he had forced himself 
to find that night had been the “ God of priests ’’ ; 
and now ? Daniel did not pray, but on the hills, 
standing staring at the clouds, he felt his inner being 
break through the wall of years. Suffering had done 
283 




TANTALUS 


284 

it, and his own humiliation, and then his family’s 
injustice. His face was hidden presently in flying mist, 
dim drops hung on him, while below one point of land 
appeared, a chalk-pit—like an island in the sky ! 

Walking alone on Middle Hill, an old blunt-headed 
Down, upon whose sides the coarse grass grew like 
hair on an Ancient Briton, London times came back 
to him. In those days illicit love would not have 
tempted him. “ Why ? ” Because he had been “ in 
earnest.” And lately ? This question made his chin 
sink forward. The last years seemed to rise no higher 
than his ankles, they simply stretched there on the 
flat like the mangold-wurzel leaves, shining dully in 
the sun, shaking idly in the wind ; full of makeshift 
business as the leaves are full of sound ! 

Solitude made his heart sink sometimes. Sometimes 
he had a longing to fight: at night in the little shep¬ 
herd’s cottage her face would come back ; waking or 
sleeping would cling to his. Youth ! Life ! 

But what of the future ? “ Tonk, tonk, tonk,” 

some village bell said callously. Daniel thought of 
the church he had left at Snayle ; the chimes would be 
ringing from its " perfect ” tower, and among its 
perfect pillars a few gentlefolk would kneel—(from 
custom) ; then from the pulpit they would be given a 
sermon by young Reed, a splendid fellow ! (an ass). 

“ And my future ? ” thought Daniel. “ Tonk— 
tonk—tonk ...” 

“ No ! ” the exclamation broke from the foundations 
of him. 

The church bell ceased. It was eleven o’clock. A 
sparrow-hawk which had been hovering, dropped at 


TANTALUS 


285 

that moment; watching, Daniel saw it sail up again, 
its victim in its claws. Tilly’s piety would snatch him 
up like that ? They called it “ rescuing ”—ha ! ha ! 
It seemed to Daniel’s tired mind that half the church- 
women he knew were vultures ! they fattened up their 
souls on sin, the sins of others. Hadn’t he himself, 
in Mrs. Wurrell’s drawing-room, fed his own complacent 
righteousness on Percy’s errors ? 

Hard was Daniel’s face, and hard his condemnation. 
There’s an hour when naked accusation is the only salve 
for pride : “I’ve been a hypocrite ! ” he said ; and this 
judgment eased him because it thrust beyond the truth. 

After sunset, when the whole weald melted and sank 
out of consciousness, becoming for the onlooker a great 
sigh breathed by the woods ; when only the hill-tops 
held the light, and the west shone as though the sun 
had come to hidden glories there, Daniel would stand 
quite still, not thinking, not fighting, and to his sur¬ 
prise not even remembering. He wanted to listen, and 
would soften his breathing ; he wanted to gaze, and 
would widen his eyes. Then comfort—like a little wave 
creeping on a rock, would gradually cover him completely. 

In this hour he knew that age of body was an outside 
sorrow unknown to the soul. It came to him that 
“ Daniel Jennifer ” was an external, too. The under¬ 
neath reality which swelled up then so gently, was 
good ! pure ! and curiously impersonal: as though the 
faintly shining, yellow sky flowed in his veins ; as 
though he were the upper sky revealing the first star. 
“ . . . And all my life,” he would think, “ I’ve had 
this real, potential . . . We’ve all got it! . . . yes, 
must tell them . . 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


East wind had seared the may-blossom when Daniel 
travelled home ; a spell of cold weather was squeezing 
all the gardens. He was glad of his Burberry, sitting in 
a third-class carriage opposite two soldiers. But while 
his feet grew chilly, his imagination, smouldering 
inwardly, ran out in widening circles. The vicar felt 
like some prophet descending from his mountain: 
men’s speech had deserted his tongue—his spirit was 
full! The old, easy fatuities he used to offer human 
beings refused to come ; instead, he looked at the 
young men, and when one began to shift his legs and 
the other stared back startled, a rush of blood dyed 
his own head with the feeling : power ! power ! life ! 

All at once he smiled at his companions. Silence, 
sometimes, can be enough. 

The train had to run through Travisham tunnel 
before it got to Hartake, and the smell which crept in 
round the windows then (however much you shut 
them) brought back vividly another journey. But how 
far off that seemed ! so far, that he could breathe 
this smell and take the pulse of his sensations quietly. 

The tunnel blackness thinned away to sickly day¬ 
light ; full light rushed in under a grey sky, and Daniel 
saw a dark, squat church tower among trees. 

A spurt of rainstorm burst on the station roof, each 
drop striking, breaking, pouring down ; and through 

286 


TANTALUS 


287 

the rain Daniel read familiar names on shops, caught 
sight, too, of familiar cabmen ; and a memory stirred— 
an excited, shouting child pointing at that very shop ! 
a young face turned to the cab window . . . and it 
had all sprung out of that—that contact with young 
life ! 

Well, he was free now. 

But when Daniel smelt his own trees through the 
rain, his fir trees and his cedar, when he caught the 
first faint rustling of his huge acacias, when he walked 
past the holly, and the old grey vicarage came in sight— 
emotion tightened. 

“ I didn’t tell Tilly my train,” he thought, “ so she 
couldn’t meet me ; ” but his heart began to beat with 
little drum-tap sounds in his ears. This homecoming 
was, after all, momentous. Neither of the girls had 
written to him once, and Tilly’s letters had been thin— 
thin !—just careful twaddle. “ I’ve got to show them,” 
was his thought while he walked through the porch 
without seeing a thing. 

“ Tilly ? ” he called. 

Mrs. Jennifer appeared at the bend of the stairs ; 
she was wearing her rust-red gardening frock, and had 
on her small green cap ; she looked astonished (and 
reproachful), as though this surprise was a moral 
shock ! Her welcome, he noticed, w r as at once full of 
fluttering words which fell all round like straws, and 
left him waiting; then, as though a painful thought 
had struck her, she blushed : was he waiting for her to 
kiss him ? 

Daniel read her thought, and saw her feel that he had 
read it; saw her honest eyes say : “It’s my duty ”— 


288 TANTALUS 

(but so sadly !) And something made him lift his 
hands. 

“ No ! ” he cried aloud—“ until you trust me, 
Tilly ! ” 

“ Have you heard from . . . ? Oh, Daniel, you look 
so strange ! ” Mrs. Jennifer backed away till her feet 
were stopped by the staircase. “ Have you been ill ? ” 

“Yes, sick unto death ! ” 

“ Oh ! What d’you mean ? ” 

But the queer trap-door of speech closed up in Daniel. 
His daughters—both of them, Thelma as well—had 
come into the hall; they did not greet him, but, stand¬ 
ing side by side, hands locked, stood staring. And, 
without moving, he looked back at them until Margaret 
said faintly : 

“ Father ! ” 

Then|the vicar^bent his fine, grey head, but as one 
who accepts an apology. 

When he had walked upstairs, and the last sound of 
footsteps had ceased, the three people in the hall found 
nothing to say to each other. Margaret, who was not, 
as a rule, demonstrative, suddenly kissed her mother. 

Mrs. Jennifer squeezed her daughter’s hand ; then 
went upstairs alone. 

Entering the bedroom her heart thumped painfully 
when she saw her husband looking at their bed. Some¬ 
thing made her say (what she had not intended saying 
till to-morrow) : 

“ Mother left a letter for you, Daniel.” 

“ What sort of letter ? ” 

“ What sort . . . ? Oh, it’s in my dressing-table 
drawer ...” 


TANTALUS 


289 


“ I see.” 

“ But you were ! You did . . . you, you made-” 

“ Granted. But what do you say to me ? ” 

Mrs. Jennifer felt frightened. “ His hair’s much 
whiter,” she thought, in a vague, foolish way, while 
pushed by a feeling that she ought to say something 
“ serious ” ; that it was, in fact, what he expected; 
some text about “ one sinner saved.” But nothing 
came. He looked so steadily into her eyes ; he stood 
like an examiner! Even when, as though answering 
her silence, he said quietly : 

“I’m sorry for the past, Tilly.” 

“ Daniel-” said Mrs. Jennifer in an almost pathe¬ 

tically anxious voice : “ I—I think that was the tea- 
bell.” Above her shaken, inner thoughts she told her¬ 
self : “ He’s ill! ” and then, just when he had smiled 
(as though at something in her last remark), her faith¬ 
ful, single-hearted conscience made her say : 

“ Here’s mother’s letter.” 

His smile vanished. His cheeks were suddenly 
marked as though some one had slapped them ; his 
eyes glittered, fixed on her, full of scathing, burning 
scorn . . . 

“ Tilly,” he asked suddenly, “ have you been praying 
for me ? ” 

“Yes, Daniel, I have.” 

“ And what did you pray ? ” 

“ That God would . . . would forgive . . ” 

“ And comfort me? ” 

A helpless, dumbfounded look, was his wife’s answer. 

Artillery practice at the camp shook the windows 
sharply. Mrs. Jennifer turned, and for the first time 

T. U 



290 


TANTALUS 


in her life, perhaps, went down slowly, and, as it were, 
uncertainly, to pour out tea. The only comfort she 
could find was in telling herself wretchedly : “ He 

doesn't see it! '' while she seemed still to see continually 
a young girl staring at the vicar, coming in too softly 
at unexpected moments (with wet shoes ! shining eyes ! 
and a twig of larch green in her hand, or just a peri¬ 
winkle-). 

Ah ! there would be heavy work for years—sweeping 
against these memories ; and Daniel didn't seem to see 
it! Though she wanted to forget, she felt she must 
remind him that there were things to be forgotten . . . 
Had she not suffered ? (A secret, voiceless suffering— 
the presence, at her table, of youth !) 

Mrs. Jennifer, going down the narrow vicarage stair¬ 
case, did not say to herself: “I'm afraid! " but she was 
suddenly obliged to find her handkerchief, while she 
did say : “ Oh ! what's going to happen ? " 



CHAPTER XXXIX 


The next day was Sunday. Among the earnest 
communicants at the first service were the vicar’s wife 
and daughters. They all three prayed that God would 
“ bring him back,” for a few words he had let fall the 
night before had disturbed them. 

“ Strengthen, stablish, settle him ! ” prayed Mrs. 
Jennifer. Having lived all her life in an ecclesiastical 
atmosphere, she knew the extreme importance of “ a 
pure heart and undefiled ” ; only for her this took the 
form of an unquestioning allegiance to the rubric. 
Faith, for Mrs. Jennifer, was a settled, solid, static 
acquisition which you grasped, and then held on to for 
dear life. (The kind of faith which stirs, and shoots 
into new action, forcing men to tread new ways—she 
feared as “ dangerous.”) That this type of faith was 
aflame in her husband, she had not yet grasped, only 
she felt uneasy, morally anxious. 

Mrs. Jennifer was torn by the contradiction of her 
senses ; she could see the vicar standing in front of all 
their friends, the chalice in his hand ; she could see how 
tall and thin and dignified he looked, how dark his eyes 
in their intensity ; how earnestly he held the cup, 
frowning with sheer concentration ; and yet last night 
he had said to her that the Church had made " mis¬ 
takes ! ” It was not his place to judge, and if he did— 
he shouldn’t speak, it was unfaithful. But this sum- 
291 U 


292 


TANTALUS 


ming up didn’t ease that curious heart-sinking which 
had set in almost at once on his return. “ He’s 
changed,” was how she phrased it. And still her heart 
sank, almost as if she herself were guilty! There was 
one thing, the girls were loyal; but this, too, made her 
uneasy ; it had cast somehow a blight. Their father 
had looked at them last night with such haughty, 
smouldering eyes . . . she had felt frightened ! 

The church at eleven was crowded ; a faint, hot 
scent of geraniums soaked up the air, with a strong 
scent of lilies, and the smell of ox-eye daisies. Swallows 
continually wheeled past the doors, summer winds 
shook the ilex trees, making every leaf rustle ; then for 
ten minutes the wind would drop, only shaking the 
buttercups as a great dog might, panting. 

The service slipped along on its well-oiled wheels, the 
people of Hartake singing together : 

“ Come, gracious Spirit, heavenly Dove.” 

Mrs. Jennifer, though not gifted with imagination, 
knew the outward signs of her husband’s moods. When 
she saw him in the pulpit (waiting for the congregation 
to finish the last lines of a hymn tune which meandered 
and veered like wood-smoke on a breeze)—saw him 
stand quietly, not looking at his notes, but at her, it 
seemed—she felt disturbed. It was not usual for 
Daniel to have this personal aspect in the pulpit: up 
there, raised in that old cup of worm-eaten, carved oak, 
he had been part of a whole custom known as “ wor¬ 
ship ” ; his face had shone impersonally, he had been 
soothing and uplifting in a fine, poetic way. But now 
he did not look poetic, he looked, rather, as he did 


TANTALUS 


293 

sometimes when stirred to anger . . . Mrs. Jennifer 
found herself fluttered into asking: “ Stirred by 
what ?’ ’ Why was his face all flushed in patches ? Why 
did he grip the pulpit rail ? Where were his notes ? 
An awful thought just grazed her brain—he didn’t 
mean to preach ? Oh ! no, that was nonsense ! 

But when Daniel asked them “ why the Church 
existed ? ” Mrs. Jennifer felt her heart jump like some 
uncouth animal locked in too small a space. 

“ This church exists to keep alive the creed of Jesus ! 
Is it doing it ? What is this creed,” her husband 
asked, “ but love ? Can you love ? So many things 
we practise, living out rules evolved to keep us safely 
in the set ways of the * sheltered life ’—restraint, 
patience, perseverance, chastity, forbearance even—but 
love ? Do you love ? ” he asked directly, meeting in 
one sweeping glance the startled eyes of his parishioners. 

Mrs. Jennifer could feel the girls holding their breath; 
a mute prayer swelled her own throat : “ Stop him ! 
stop him ! ” 

”... What’s the good,” he asked the congregation, 
“ of virtue and uprightness if we let them blind our 
eyes ? What’s the good of being ‘ baptised ’ if we 
draw away our garment from the sinner ? What’s the 
good of virtue, if we can’t warm and feed and clothe an 
evil brother ? Love is the great God in us seeing itself 
in all! Is God afraid of him who falls ? Don’t be so 
hard ! Don’t hold aloof, don’t judge ! . . . ” (Other 
people now looked startled; Miss Cantyre had drawn her 
chin up, and back, the full length of her neck, fixing an 
extremely high-class, impersonal expression abouther lips 
and the lines of her nose : but her eyes were uneasy!) 


294 


TANTALUS 


“ Daniel! ” Mrs. Jennifer said desperately with her 
own blue eyes ; but he continued as though all his 
people there were paper, as though nothing—no sense 
of decency, or ladies’ feelings, or what was usual and 
acceptable—existed. It was borne in on Mrs. Jennifer 
with the sharpest pang she had suffered yet in church, 
that the man with the burning face up there didn’t care 
what they thought ! A fact so utterly subversive of 
Sunday life as she knew it, that it terrified her. 

“ Don't judge,” he was saying (and the words, some¬ 
how, cut like a knife). “ What right has the untried, 
sheltered soul to judge ? The furnace of another’s life 
no man may know but he. If you see your brother 
falling— love him ! . . .” 

Love ! love ! love ! was the text of Daniel’s sermon, 
preached like an accusation, fierce, penetrating, with a 
kind of zeal his listeners did not know. But it pierced 
their war-time conscience ; it made them hot, uncom¬ 
fortable, vexed, afraid—were they not guilty of hate ? 
(Were they not justified ?) 

Yet the vicar, up there, was speaking of “ love,” 
“ universal love,” “ love for all men, sinners or 
no.” 

No wonder his people looked startled, offended. And 
seeing their faces, a wave of bitterness swelled up in 
Daniel. They would not take his message ! He could 
read it in their eyes ; they wanted from him just what 
they were used to! . . . They were angry. A feeling 
almost of captivity chilled Daniel. 

It was hard ! His people would not see the truth— 
when a man gave it to them, at last, hotjand naked 
from his soul! 


TANTALUS 


295 


He had altered, they had not. 

But he would fight! ... it was like pushing Truth 
against a wall; but he would push, denounce, accuse ; 
they were uncharitable people ! No matter if they 
stared—he was no longer husband, father, vicar—but 
a voice ! a force ! a flame ! 

{“ If he speaks like this/' his wife was thinking, 
" they’ll leave the church. Oh, Daniel ! ”) 

Two butterflies chased each other up and down one 
window. The vicar had ceased. Next moment all 
were singing “ Thine for ever, God of love,” and Daniel 
had turned to the East; he had walked down his 
pulpit steps, and slowly, erect in front of them all, he 
had passed to the altar. It was as though a stranger 
said the blessing. 

A minute later the congregation began their shuffle 
towards the door ; eye met eye, and in the porch rose 
whisperings. 

“ How d’you do ? ” Mrs. Jennifer tried to say bravely 
to Miss Can tyre, and to Mrs. Clutterbuck : “ How d’you 
do ? ” But round her the faces of her friends showed 
surprise, a kind of barely hidden dismay. They drew 
together in small groups, these old parishioners, blocking 
the porch and the path outside, and standing even on 
the grass between the graves ; each one felt she must 
have her own discomfort voiced by some one else 
before she could give tongue to it completely ; each one 
waited—as birds, before a storm, wait on the weather. 
The Misses Clutterbuck, with cheeks the colour of 
squashed mulberries, gazed with passionate hope at the 
vestry door—the dear vicar might yet be “ himself ” 
again, he had only to come out apologetically ! . . . 


TANTALUS 


296 

Meanwhile one surly townsman was heard muttering : 
“ Give that sort of stuff to the Huns ! " 

“ Has Mr. Jennifer been ill ? " asked some one else. 
Questions quickened; sentiments became articulate 
(but the real uneasiness could not be voiced; it 
was, each one felt, indelicate.) People merely said : 
“ Unusual! ’’ “ Uncalled for ! " “ Extraordinary ! " 

“ Unlike the dear vicar ! " “ He looked so exalted/' 

said somebody. “ But he went too far," cried some¬ 
body else. “ Oh, he was too free ! too—too-’’ 

“ Too modern ! ’’ “ Not right for the day." 

“ Mother ! " Thelma’s voice, half-strangled, at her 
mother’s ear: “ What did he mean ? He seemed 

angry ! it was almost as if—as if father was saying 
we'd been ‘ uncharitable ’ ! Do say something, 
mother ! ’’ 

“ Oh, Mrs. Jennifer," a friend’s voice, but already 
guarded : “ what an original sermon your dear husband 
gave us to-day ! " 

“ How d’you do, Mrs. Verral ? Yes, he—he was 
excited-" 

“ Excited ! He struck me as being quite ‘ inspired ’ ! 
But in such an odd way, don’t you know ? ’’ 

“ When the vicar comes to tea," chimed in 
Minnie Wurrel, “ I mean to ask him for his old 
sermons again! That delightful one about ‘ the 
Ammonites ’-" 

A sudden gust of wind raced across the churchyard, 
driving over the ilex trees with a sound as of wagons 
rolling. Every one held on to veil or skirt. And at 
this moment the vicar appeared. 

He came through the vestry door, his face austere. 





TANTALUS 


297 


uplifted ; meeting hostility with a kind of lonely pride, 
looking rather like some fierce old alien ; then putting 
his hand to his high-crowned hat in silence, he walked 
away. 





















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